In Soot, I Sleep
by Lilac Alyssa Halliwell
Summary: Statistics say she should be trapped in a dead-end job, struggling nights at the local community college to earn her GED. Statistics say he should be in jail, in an institution, drunk and filthy in a halfway house. But, in nine months they graduate. Nine months until they join the 30.4% of US adults with a bachelor's degree. An introspective, modern day AU.
1. A Blueprint for Ambition

_When you got big dreams_  
_Don't listen to what nobody say and don't let nobody turn you away_.  
_When you got big dreams, keep your eyes on the prize._  
_Don't fall to the way side, reach for the sky._

- Bow Wow

* * *

**Fall Semester, Week 1: **_Monday_**  
**

* * *

"So, I've been thinking that Saturday-"

"Gale, I already thanked you for the ride. Don't push your luck. You're on my last nerve right now," Clove grits out sharply, clutching to her bag for dear life.

The dark-haired man leans back, letting out an exaggerated sigh. At the red light, he turns to Clove, and earnestly remarks, "Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?"

Clove lets out a dry laugh, "Gale-"

"I'm serious. All bullshit aside, if there was anyone I'd want to go through this with, it'd be you 100% of the time."

Clove's eyes twinkle slightly at the remark. "I'm..." she stumbles over her words, abashed, and mumbles, "Thanks, Gale."

A faint teasing smirk tugs at his lips and he ruffles her hair. The light turns green and Gale continues onto Harris street, pulling into the lot. He looks at the red brick building, muttering, "Looks friendly."

Clove flicks the side of his head. "I'm nervous enough on my own, but thanks for the morale booster."

He arches his brows in return and nudges her toward the door. "Give em hell, Clove."

"Yeah," she breathes, gaining momentum, "Yeah, that's right."

"-because I've definitely been suffering the brunt of your wrath for the last five years."

She steps out of the car, slinging the bag over her left shoulder. "You are going to be late, Hawthorne," Clove warns, having stolen his smirk with one of her own.

His gray eyes dart to the dashboard, "Fuck, alright. Try not kill anyone, okay? Save that for day two."

Clove slams the door, chuckling slightly as she heads towards the daunting structure with wide eyes. "Welcome to Adult Probation, Clove."

* * *

"Oh, when they said my intern was a pretty idiot, I should have figured it was you."

The blonde turns, a grin gracing him instantly, "Finnick Odair, haven't seen you since my 21st. Still been drunk these last three months?"

"Funny, Shrimp," the bronze-haired man retorts lightly, looking pristine in the navy uniform with a gun straddled at his waist. _Just think, Cato. Nine months and it can all be yours. _"Actually, had a very busy and productive summer."

Cato nods, the grin still not leaving him, "So what's our first order of business - bank robbery, high-speed chase, busting some crazy parties?"

Finnick stares him down, then with a smug expression replies, "Close."

Cato's blue eyes follow Finnick's, landing on a mountain of paperwork. "You've got to be kidding. Harry Potter is shorter than this!" Cato complains, picking up a quarter of the pages.

"This is nothing. Just wait."

Cato lets out a stream of air and accepts Finnick's pen.

** Date of birth (and age)_: _**

June 27th, 1991 [21]

**By checking this box, student intern agrees to maintain standards and keep all necessary law enforcement matters confidential, unless designated by law as a mandated reporter for the state of Virginia. **

[x]

Cato's phone buzzes slightly, and he angles himself away from Finnick's green eyes to read the message.

_Small get-together tonight to celebrate the first night of school. Jo's coming over._

The blonde's lips form into a knowing expression.

_Define small, Glim. - C_

_Don't get your panties in a bunch :)  
_

He lets out an amused sigh, sending one last message, and pockets his phone. He rakes a hand through his hair, testing the dexterity of his right hand.

_Heard a new accounting pick up line on the radio this morning; Why don't we go back to my place? I'll let you audit my staff. _

Cato chuckles to himself, imagining her expression, and returns to his contracts. His phone buzzes twice in quick succession. By the time he gets to the last page of his contracts, Glimmer has probably sent him six or seven messages alone.

"Is there a section in here about the Skulls & Bones too?" he asks the bronze-haired officer, handing him the last of his contracts.

"Only if you're hired," Finnick teases, snatching the bundle of sheets and placing them in a mauve file cabinet.

He looks back to Cato, his posture becoming rigid, "Alright, rules of the road, before we get started. We are friends, and I want this to be fun, but first and foremost, we at the Charlottesville Police Department value your safety above all else, so try not to get yourself into any situations you can't pick yourself out of, Elroy, or this isn't going to bode well. Second of all, justice internships are sixteen hours a week. How you want to divide that up is up to you."

A grin has slid up Cato's face, "So, three in the morning?"

"Nothing good happens after 2 AM."

If anyone in the world would know that, it's definitely Finnick, Cato thinks as he continues the formalities. "When we go on-scene, either myself or another officer will assign tasks to you. Do not go beyond the scope of these assignments as they can cause some gnarly liabilities. Some days are slow, some days less so. Burn out's quick in this line of work, so if you go home and have something stuck on your mind, hit me up, and we'll go for a beer and talk."_  
_

Cato nods.

"You're going to see things that may disturb you, may find yourself exposed the blackest parts of society. Tact is encouraged. Sometimes, things will get a little wild. You may discover that your neighborhood bookseller is charged with money laundering, or that that babe who's taken a shot or seven has been assaulted at the party. Discretion is a must, and please don't make me repeat that."

The blonde figures he'd be too damn focused on the scumbag who raped the drunk girl to have time to dish dirt to the other party-dwellers, but affirms what he's heard.

Static comes over Finnick's radio. "I'm going to take a piss, then we're going out on this call. Ready?" the bronze-haired man inquires, an itch of excitement in his veins.

"About time," Cato laughs. Finnick disappears towards the bathroom, and Cato withdraws his phone from his pocket.

_Stick with me and those lights won't be the only thing flashing. _

_Is there a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?_

_I have a great idea for those handcuffs. _

_You must be a cop, because you've got fine written all over you. _

_Human bodies have 206 bones. Do you want another one? ;)_

_You don't need a warrant to see the inside of my trunk. _

He stifles a laugh with his hand, ultimately failing. Stumbling over to the water fountain, he takes a few sips, before sputtering the liquid in a hacking cough. Oh, he'll have his revenge.

_Don't you have a boring econ professor to listen in on? _

Finnick returns, throwing a card key at him. "Make sure you don't lose this, alright? It's your emergency access card." Shrugging, he adds, "Not that it matters. You'll have a babysitter on-sight at all times anyway. And you got your wish, by the way, first call is to a domestic dispute."

Glimmer's text comes through as they leave the station. _Just think about it. I'll make the money, and you'll bring home the honeys. It's an even better deal than NAFTA. _

Another grin breaks onto his face, and Cato isn't sure if it's because of Glimmer's jokes or the adrenaline rush of their first call, but something tells him this is going to be a great year.

* * *

**AN** - Dedicated to believeindream, who runs clatorecs on tumblr, and needs clato writers to fill all sorts of prompts.

_If you're going to favorite/follow, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated.  
_


	2. Cheap Riot

_Some people see the revolution, but most only see the girl  
I can lose my hard earned freedom if my fear defines my world  
I declare my independence from the critics and their stones  
I can find my revolution, I can learn to stand alone..._

- Superchick

* * *

**Fall Semester, Week 1: **_Monday & Tuesday_

* * *

Clove drops her navy book bag onto the floor and slides into the blue chair. _On-time, _she thinks victoriously, before looking idly to the old clock; it's probably been there since the university opened... in 1825_._

She withdraws her phone, skimming through a few messages from her sister, her lips twitching into a small smile. It's 5:29. Her executive board should be here by now. Especially Professor Emerson, who is neurotic to the bone.

As if reading her thoughts, the phone dings twice.

She peruses both, then dumps her phone into the bottom of her bag haphazardly, and then leans into her arms. It's been a long day, and it will only continue to get longer throughout the night.

"Hey, you," Professor Emerson greets, sitting at the head on the table. "Where's the rest of the rat pack?"

"Missy is on the bus, Captain Everdeen is presumably on her way, and Darius decided he just isn't coming. At least, that's what Katniss said."

_I'm sure you guys are really glad you elected him now, _Clove thinks bitterly.

Professor Emerson shuffles through her papers and tucks a mousy brown strand behind her ear. "He's got natural charisma, Mr. Strong."

_Destiny's Child is actually quite happy with Hillary, Laura, and Condoleezza, though, Professor. We neither need nor want a George Dubya. _

A fair-skinned redhead darts into the room and takes a seat beside Clove. "Sorry I'm late, but wait for this," she says extending her arms in a dramatic gesture, "I just had a stroke of genius."

"Sure it wasn't just a stroke?" Professor Emerson murmurs softly, before looking away in embarrassment at the realization she made the comment aloud.

"Lay it on us, Laura," Clove says dryly.

Marissa's eyes flit in confusion. It's a lost reference on the junior. "What if we toured the medical examiner's office?"

"What made you think of that?" Professor Emerson says in a mildly horrified distaste, her face in a taut grimace at the morbidity of the statement.

"I was on Rose Hill Drive, and I-"

"Doing what?" Clove asks with a smirk.

Everyone knows the free clinic is Rose Hill Drive.

"Volunteering with the Red Cross," the redhead squeaks, shooting the brunette a dirty glare as a pink tinge makes its way across her cheeks, "And on the bus ride back to Lambeth, I passed by TJ Health Department, and then I thought, what could be better than touring the city morgue right before All Hallow's Eve?"

"It's a good opportunity to expand the students' horizon." Marissa jumps at Katniss' voice, suddenly startled by the braided girl's stealth. _When did she get here?_

But there's a sudden mischief in Katniss' eyes, and Clove hides her unseemly grin, because Everdeen's boyfriend's always been somewhat of wimp. In three seconds flat, she can already imagine nine or ten ways Katniss will fuck with Peeta's head, and certain pride surges through her.

"Formalities, ladies. Before we continue any longer, Marissa needs to begin the docket," Dr. Emerson presses.

Marissa shuffles through her belongings, before opening to a blank page, and announcing, "This meeting of University of Virginia's Undergraduate Justice Honor Society and Recreational Club has been called to order. Present is Clove Holloway, acting president, Katniss Everdeen, events coordinator, Marissa Volpe, recording secretary, and Dr. Cecilia Emerson, faculty adviser. Absent is Darius Strong, vice president. We now open the floor to Dr. Emerson."

The three girls look expectantly at their adviser "One of my esteemed colleagues has suggested that we may retain underclassmen if we give them designated tasks and responsibilities to uphold. Shows a little bit of faith in them or something. Kids love it, apparently."

Clove considers as much.

Before their last executive board graduated or abandoned ship, she and Marissa had been active recruitment liaisons, advertising the group in various first and second year justice classes to increase membership. Had she been a more eloquent speaker and less adverse to crowds, this might have been helpful, but to her luck it showed "initiative" and lead to her election as acting president anyway. It didn't hurt that she ran unopposed.

"I've been thinking in addition to the sweatshirts, and the social events, that we could spruce it up a little this year. Make it a little more festive by recruiting another student who could create our club's very first annual scrapbook."

Katniss's shoulders rise and drop lazily, "Why not?"

Marissa loses her doe-eyed innocence and adds sneakily, "You know, but, I think we need to think about this caustically. The criminal justice major is split 50/50 and our leadership board is 75/25, it wouldn't hurt to even out the odds with another male voice."

Clove snorts. _Subtle, Missy, _she thinks.

"Actually, I was going over my roster for Research Methods, and Cato Elroy is in my 2:00 class, and -"

"Why?" Clove blurts. Katniss and Marissa's eyes train to her. "Sorry," she mumbles.

Dr. Emerson continues, "He was in my International Justice class last fall, funny guy, and as I recall, he is a double major in Photography." She looks directly at Clove, "Unless you know of anyone else."

Photography_ minor_, Clove corrects internally, and no, she doesn't know of anyone else.

She hasn't exactly had the time to get to know the majority of her peers. Little can be afforded between the multifaceted dictations of her color-coded daily agenda. Only Gale's saving grace has afforded her this luxury, and no one can say she didn't earn this right, even if she doesn't always want it.

"It's worth a try. I vote yes," Katniss affirms.

_We're voting now?_

Marissa dots her is and crosses her ts, "Can't find out a reason to object, and think, just because we ask doesn't mean he'll say yes."

_True, _Clove's conscious reasons, settling the irritation pricking at every inch of her skin, but something tells her she won't get quite that lucky.

* * *

"Glim, Big Mouth," Cato greets, closing the door behind him and snatching a beer out of the refrigerator. Johanna flips him off, and sends the blonde a dirty look, which bounces right off of him. He looks around, and furrows his brows, seemingly puzzled. "What happened to your small get-together?"

Glimmer leans back against the couch, a beer perched comfortably in her grasp. "It's a surprise," she says with a wink. Cato hopes to himself that it isn't Thresh. He still owes him a couple ("a couple") bucks from their last get-together.

A toilet flushes, then he hears a stream of water pouring from the faucet. His eyes turn towards the bathroom expectantly and a mop of curly brown hair emerges. A wide smile stretches across his face.

"Marvie!" he exclaims, exhilaration coursing through him. Cato grabs Marvel, wrapping his arms around him, and slaps his back.

A shy smile twitches at the young man's cheeks, "If my visits were received this well every time, I'd probably come around more often."

Cato ruffles Marvel's curls, softly murmuring, "You know I hate you being so far away, especially out in Baltimore. It's dangerous-"

"Can we skip overprotective brother mode and settle on something a little more fun? In fact," Marvel swipes the blonde's beer, "I think I've found a great alternative already."

"Sorry, Marv. No drinking," Cato remarks, taking the drink back. "But, hey, when you're 21-" He leaves it on the table, and Johanna snatches it up victoriously.

Marvel groans, his puppy dog expression rather pathetic. "That wouldn't be my first beer, Cato."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Cato retorts lightly.

"We're fourteen months apart, stop being such a prick."

Cato looks over him. Marvel has grown to be nearly as tall as he is, but hasn't been quite able to extradite the boyish charm he's exuded for so long. And Cato can't help it. Can't help something that's been so ingrained in him since they were children. Marvel's always going to be his little brother.

"Boys," Glimmer admonishes, drawing out the word deliberately. "No one cares about how many pubes you have on your prepubescent ball sacks."

"I'll drink to that," Johanna mocks with a sly grin, hitting her (Cato's) bottle against Glimmer's with a nice clank.

"Cato, drop the dirty look," Glimmer warns.

Cato makes an exaggerated motion, grumbling, "It's not my fault you bring that succubus into our apartment."

Marvel's eyes haven't left the carpet and he's barely able to force the words out without vomiting from nerves. "Mom called, and I-"

"What?" Cato breathes, abandoning his staring contest with Johanna and turning his brother. "Did you tell her to go to hell?"

"Something like that," he mumbles, still not looking at the three of them.

Cato nods approvingly, "Last thing you need is that scam artist-"

Marvel's heart beats faster, "I don't really want to talk about it. I just wanted to see if she called you too." He then adds awkwardly, "Guess not."

Harshly, Cato shakes his head. "She wouldn't call me. She knows I wouldn't give her a dime. Fuck, I wouldn't give her the sand in my shoes. That bottom feeder can-"

"Look, I know you're happy with the way you live your life spreading the 'joy,' but I'd rather not be known as the dude with mommy issues. It's been three years, Cato. It's time to move on. And really, she can call me as much as she wants, because I've wondered every night for the last six months whether or not her body was drifting down the Hudson, so it was actually pretty nice to get a courtesy call just to know she's still alive."

Glimmer senses the tension, and grabs Johanna's hand, dragging the brunette into her bedroom with an apologetic smile, but Johanna looks much more interested in numerous shades of red Cato's face is transitioning through than anything the twenty-two year old can offer her. The blonde girl pulls Johanna into her room forcefully.

An intensity of energy pools into his chest. "Marvel," Cato threatens, his fists shaking.

Marvel shakes his head, bitter, "Yeah, what a great way to appeal to me, acting just like Jack and Kevin and Casey."

Cato's fists still and he unwinds them immediately as if he's been doused in hot oil. "I'm nothing like them."

The curly haired young man looks away, "Look, I'm just going to head back to the Amtrak."

"See, that's the problem with you, Marvel. You're can't ever face a problem a head-on. So, yeah, run right back to Baltimore, and don't come back til you've grown a pair."

Marvel's eyes fixate on Cato for only a second, and it looks like he's about to respond, when he swallows his comment instead. Rubbing at his nose self-consciously, he treads towards the door. Cato ponders whether or not this is a dramatic ploy, but before he has time to think, Marvel closes the door behind him quietly.

He fights the regret that claws at him from the inside out.

Finally, he stops staring at the doorway, stops expecting Marvel to return. And he hopes to god his little brother is okay, before coming to the foregone conclusion that maybe his _little brother_ isn't so little after all, that he really wasn't that different of a person fourteen months ago.

Popping off the cap to a fresh beer, Cato grabs the text for tomorrow's class in his left hand, and returns to the abandoned couch. It was steal, a couch and a loveseat for $100. He'd invite the Craigslist killer to dinner for another deal like that.

The blonde tries five or six times to concentrate on the text, but can't over Johanna and Glimmer's giggles through the walls.

Sliding the back door open, Cato steps out onto the balcony. He leans into the railing and observes the city skyline.

Charlottesville isn't perfect, but it's a hell of lot better than home. Anything is better than home. Anything is better the roads he endured to make it here, to make it to the University of Virginia.

And if he had a mother he could count on, he's sure she would be proud.

* * *

If anyone in the world was teaching Research Methods other than Dr. Emerson, Clove would have stayed home bundled up in her pajamas and taken the class online while watching old reruns of Dance Moms (the show is strangely addicting) and eating poptarts, but she's waited two incredibly long years to have this opportunity, to have the opportunity to take an entire semester's worth of in-person classes, and she's not letting a single second escape her unscathed.

So, she's here, and she's dressed, and she's pretty sure (87% sure) she didn't wear these jeans yesterday. So, in her book, she's got herself pretty put together today.

There's only a couple of other students in the room thus far and Clove keeps waiting for Marissa or Katniss to show up - they're her only friends (and really, Katniss is more Gale's than hers) - with the full knowledge that neither is enrolled in the class.

And there's sudden nervousness, because she has no one to partner up with should that become an expectation, and if Dr. Emerson's previous course is anything to measure the expectation on, then she's already one leg down.

So, as it stands, Clove is about ten minutes early to her first class of the fall semester, and she's about to have an anxiety attack (over what she couldn't tell you) and class hasn't even started yet.

"You look like you're about to have a coronary," a voice remarks, taking the seat in front of her.

Oh, and she still has to formally invite (more like beg) this piece of work to become a member of the Justice executive board.

"Do you want me to call the paramedics for you?" Cato asks, his voice distorted by the ringing in her ear.

She must inevitably shake her head 'no,' because with one last concerned glance, he turns back towards the the front board.

The first day of any college class is always a major drag.

If you're unfortunate enough to take a freshman-level course, which you'd never do unless you were actually a freshman (or incredibly naive), you will inevitably be forced into every ice breaker activity the graduate assistants can think of until they grow wary of hearing your favorite flavor of ice cream.

And even if Dr. Emerson is her favorite professor, she is not exempt from the standard routine of reading through the course syllabus stanza by stanza. Though she does spruce it up by handing each student a copy of "What Is Poverty?" by Jo Goodwin Parker as they get ready to pack up their things. With two minutes on the clock, Clove breezes through the page and a half recollection.

Clove drops the sheet to the floor, rather happy with the twist of fate, when Cato picks up and places it back onto the wooden surface of her desk.

"It's nothing to cry about," he murmurs, and Clove is ready to lay it into him. Because what the hell could he know? What could this arrogant, lazy, belligerent son of a bitch know what it means to be poor, what it means to endure hardship?

Nothing, because like the inordinately pricy Canon that hangs around his neck, Cato's certainly always been polished and well taken care of. And she doubts he knows anything about what's worth crying about, besides maybe the unhealthy amount of gel in his slick blonde hair.

But she doesn't cut him down, doesn't make him swallow his words, instead, Clove asks, "Dr. Emerson, I, and the rest of the executive board were interested in knowing if you'd consider joining the Justice Rec Club as Historian."

"Why me?"

"Honestly? Because you were the first idiot that popped into Emerson's mind when she decided we needed a Historian."

He smirks at her slightly, "Between you and my roommate, I don't know which of you is the better snake charmer."

Which fits, because if this loser is anything, that'd be it. Clove bites down the acid retort, "Think about it."

The 21-year-old picks up his things, "I don't have to. I'm a rather generous soul, Clove, as you will find in our work together."

She rolls her eyes. The only thing she's ever "found" in their work together is that this neanderthal has zero work ethic and even less brain cells. Clove tries to coerce herself into a state of diplomacy, a rather stale skill of hers. "I haven't even told you when we meet. Don't you have any other commitments?"

Clove finds the last remark almost comes out as a plea and that her tact has dwindled down to nothing.

Cato shrugs, "I'll accommodate."

"Fine. Our first group meeting is tomorrow at 5:00 in the underground library."

"Really?" he asks, his interest caught. He turns towards the right, and Clove heads in the opposite direction, already thinking about the countless other things she needs to do today. Cheerfully, he calls out, "See you then!"

_Great, _Clove thinks in falsetto enthusiasm.

* * *

**AN** - I know, I know, not as much interaction as you'd like, but I want to develop Clove and Cato separately, before developing them together. Don't worry, unfortunately for Clove, she'll be seeing a lot of the blonde terror in the days to follow.

Also, friendly reminder that clatorecs on tumblr always has prompts to be filled, and when I'm not writing, I'm always reading.

_If you're going to favorite/follow or already have, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated._


	3. The Price Of War

_Have you ever spun out of control  
Like you never saw the road ahead  
Have you ever just kept looking back  
Ever closer to the edge.  
_

- Delta Goodrem

* * *

**Fall semester: Week 1:** _Wednesday_

* * *

It's an unbearably warm day - roasting, toasting, unbelievably hot. In a few short weeks, autumn will settle in with a rustling of the leaves, and the climate will temper out, but in the meantime, Cato is developing heat rash. At least, that's what he's telling himself as he squirms, readjusting in the passenger seat of Finnick's patrol car. And it smells.

It's so entirely pungent that he's convinced that the entire roster of the Cavaliers ditched their sweaty jockstraps in the backseat. The longer Cato entertains the possibility, the longer the blonde doubts that's even plausible; The University of Virginia football team blows. Like, seriously blows, and he hopes their "johns" are paying them a fairly competitive rate, because they're a rather disappointing bunch of sad sacks - or at least they were the last time he watched a game - his freshman year, 09, when they barely managed to win a quarter of the season's games.

He hasn't kept up since.

He defies stereotypes.

As he settles down into the seat, Cato notices the coffee shop down the road. He can almost imagine the ring the bell makes as the door to Java Java creeps shut. His eyes shift to an elderly man walking his dog (well, more like the dog is walking him) with one hand while shuffling his copy of the Daily Progress in the other. The aroma of freshly baked croissants wafts in a gentle breeze, and Cato's stomach growls in protest.

Cato's is about 193% sure that if he has to stick around this festering pile of puss (the hot, angry leather of Finny's passenger seat) any longer that he may in fact hijack the old cruiser and dive straight for the Arctic. Fair is fair, Finny.

Since Marvel is uninterested in contrived politeness, Cato texts this instead to the moody twenty-year-old junior. _For someone determined to be grown up, you're sinking, squirt. The least you can do is let me know you made it home okay._

He's a man of few words today and none of them are nice.

Where the hell is Finnick?

12:42, and still no sight of the bronze-haired Adonis anywhere.

_one... two... three..._

Maybe he should have majored in theater like Marvel.

_four... five... six..._

"Personal call," Finnick says as he rejoins the blonde in the driver's seat of the old Victoria. He adjusts the walkie-talkie on his belt, and blasts the air. That's much, much better. "Possible domestic dispute off of Commonwealth and Peyton."

Cato tries not to let envy pinprick his skin as a couple of sorority girls walk out of the coffee shop with delightfully sweet iced coffees and their world-famous cinnamon buns. "Who called it in?"

"Confidential informant."

Okay, whatever. It's not like Finnick has to trust him or anything. That's fine. Not like he's totally seen him drunk off his ass and total wreck. Not like he's taken him home after his wild nights out, and promised not to tell that priest. Finnick is the catholiest of Catholics, and isn't trust supposed to be a virtue?

The engine is roaring before Cato can think to utter such a complaint, and then Finnick is looking over to him with a whimsical, slightly smug smirk. "Cut out the Eeyore crap. It's supposed to be an adventure - you, me, and the patrons of Charlottesville at our feet."

Finnick has that about as twisted as it can get.

"You make orphans look cheery," he whines.

"Fin, I'm going to spend another thirty minutes with me, myself, and Queen Victoria, so there's not really a lot to look forward to," Cato says breezily.

"It's Elizabeth, Cato. Elizabeth is the queen. Victoria died in, like, 1901 or something. I took Modern Britain in summer school, and-"

"I was talking about the car, you putz," Cato remarks, leaning his head back, exasperation dripping from every surface that is the 6'2, 180-pound grouch. He checks his phone once again, and to his disdain, there is still no reply.

* * *

Autumn Hills Apartments is a rather rundown place, with the sticky, garish trash containers overflowing in nearly toxic measures, and last night's dinner oozing down the side. The Health Department would have a field day. Fire ants line the bounty of empty two-liter bottles clustered around the base of the can, and broken glass is littered throughout the lot sporadically. Cato wouldn't be surprised to find an obese rodent or two making it out like kings.

He wobbles up the three-flight trek, every step ricocheting off the pavement and magnifying as the sound disperses. Forget subtlety. With every clink or clatter, Cato quickly learns that this complex is dangerous. A sneak escape would be near-impossible. Every step is an avalanche. So, before they press their knuckles to the door, Cato already knows the outcome of this call.

Finnick knocks, about to call out, when there's a shuffle inside the apartment. A man yells angrily, before trudging across the floor, and opening the door. "What do the fine men of Hoo-ville PD want with me today?"

Their perpetrator, Mr. Cray, is a caricature of Captain Hook: long, greasy hair, and unforgiving eyes. "We received a courtesy call, and are here to ensure that everyone in your home is safe. May we come in, sir?"

Captain Hook's eyes narrow in suspicion, "Call from who?" he spits.

"We need to ensure everyone in the home is safe. May we come in?"

"Aren't you the bartender at McGrady's?"

Cato's never really thought about the fall-out, the consequences of such a transition. By the unflinching waver in Finnick's sea green eyes, this must happen often enough that he's become wholly unaffected by the recognition of his glory days. And boy, Cato doesn't mind recognizing them either.

"Sir, you can either allow us in, or we will enter ourselves. I'd prefer the courtesy of your permission," he grits.

That's most certainly a bluff. Anyone who's watched two minutes of Law and Order SVU could tell you that, but Captain Hook seems to buy it.

Mr. Cray rolls his eyes, and hurriedly gestures his hands wildly for the two to come in. "Hurry your business, boys. I don't have time to wait for the rest of fucking of your fucking frat party to show up."

Arching his brows up slightly, Cato follows Finnick into the musty apartment with mild curiosity. Crumpled up beer cans fill the hallway, and the vomit's scent lingers in open air. His nose finds the source, immediately, and locks in on the repulsive, severely degraded carpet.

"Anyone else live here?"

"No," Mr. Cray replies firmly.

But it's a domestic dispute, and it takes two to tango. So on a hunch, Cato slips into the bedroom while Finnick takes Mr. Cray aside. Easiest tactic in the book.

For a moment, Cato looks out the window. Maybe she climbed down the fire escape, maybe she-

A small rustle steals Cato's eyes away from the window.

Grimacing at the carpet, he resorts to getting onto his knees and looking for weapons under Mr. Cray's bed. The least he can do is check. His blue eyes widen immediately as they capture a thin, red-haired woman biting her lip, trying her hardest not to cry. Cato whispers, "Are you injured?"

She shakes her head as much as she is able to in such a confined state.

"Do you need medical attention?"

There's no reply, and for a minute, he thinks she'll flee. "I can help, you know, get you to safety if you let us."

This seems to startle the woman even more, and the redhead begins to shake erratically. "Finnick!" Cato calls.

It's the wrong move, entirely the wrong move, and he realizes this a moment too late. "It'll be okay," he tells her softly, grimacing slightly at the booming steps. He offers his hand, but she doesn't take it, doesn't even look at him.

Finnick rounds into the room, Mr. Cray looming behind. "I thought you said no one else was here," Finnick says, an edge in his voice.

"You asked if anyone lives here. Lavinia doesn't live here."

"Are you injured?" Finnick asks, his voice cool.

Again, she shakes her head. "Would you like to tell us what happened?"

"Nothing happened," Mr. Cray interrupts gruffly. He looks expectantly at Lavinia, and she shies away.

"I need a statement, mam."

"Lavinia doesn't have anything to say to you."

"Sir, intimidating a witness is a felony. I need you to please step back," he says roughly, creating space between all parties. Lavinia stands on wobbly knees, unable to look either of them in the eye. "One last time, madam, are you hurt, or need medical attention?"

Mustering the energy, Lavinia shakes her head one last time. Finally, Finnick mutters, "In case of emergency, call 911. Have a nice day, mam." He looks up to Mr. Cray, "Sir, because of the noise complaint, I will be issuing you a disorderly conduct citation. The court should mail you a hearing time within five business days."

Finnick bristles towards the door, but Cato's encapsulated in ice. There's not a chance Lavinia will escape the night and unscathed, and it leaves a hollowing in his chest. "Cato, let's go," Finnick calls unsympathetically.

He trudges out of the apartment, dead weight in his feet. And he's too distracted by the heaviness within to attune himself to anything the bronze-haired man is saying as they return to the old Victoria.

* * *

"Think of it as an autobiographical exposé."

Clove's eyelashes flutter slightly, the lines under her eyes pronounced. They'd done a round of two truths and a lie as their class icebreaker. It's in Clove's most modest opinion that they are a few years too old for this practice, but her opinion hardly matters, because apparently that was a segue.

Cato informed their peers that he owns every season of Scrubs, he knew Snape was innocent, and that loathes anything coconut flavored.

He's leaning forward, his chin comfortably nestled in his arms. Every so often he sips from his coffee canister and checks his phone, but today the blonde has been impressively docile. If Clove had a conscience, she'd ask him if he was alright. As it stands, she doesn't.

"You and your partner are about to become very intimate."

That draws the collective's attention, and suddenly Professor Abernathy - eccentric, dramatic Professor Abernathy - is gesturing wildly at the crowd.

Uneasiness falls over the collective as he nears. Clove's mind goes to all the wrong places. There are laws, university policies, and the concept of basic common decency that most certainly wouldn't be amenable to any lascivious conduct.

Right...?

But none of the students can pluck enough guts to falter the long-winded lecturer, so the conversation dances on. "You will be painting a metaphorical portrait of each other's strengths, adversities overcome, and most minute weaknesses."

"Could you be any more vague?" Clove mumbles into her sleeve.

A couple of the other students are dragging and refreshing the Facebook feed on their phones while Professor Abernathy sweeps around the classroom in a manic, erratic rant.

"The reason we endeavor on this project is to come to an understanding that while we all come from various walks of life, that often there is more than meets the eye."

Clove notices how Cato's head rises at the assertion, a tuft of his messy hair sticking up. Though no less worn-out, he's suddenly intrigued, invested, intensely drawn.

Maybe he'd be better off as a philosophy major.

"You two, you two, you two, and you two," Professor Abernathy begins, pairing off from left to right. Clove prays for- "And you two."

Damn it.

"Can we skip the whole you hating me thing?" Cato asks as he turns towards her, "We can pick it up again tomorrow, and you can call me a brainless Delta Mu Phi or whatever gets you hot. Seeing as how this thing we have is now a Monday through Friday thing."

"Delta Mu Phi?" Clove asks tiredly.

"Dumb motherf-"

Clove's mouth gapes slightly, and then her jaw tightens quickly into place. "Wow," she deadpans, secondhand embarrassment radiating off of her in hot waves, "and I thought I didn't have a sense of humor, but that was... that... I'm pretty sure you could hear a pin drop... in Japan! Maybe even in outer space."

Offense crinkles his eyes and wrinkles his nose, followed by his own shade of embarrassment as he rubs at the back of his neck. "But it's not even my joke. I heard it from a drunkard in a compost heap!"

"And you thought it was worth repeating, Leno?" Clove retorts, still uneven.

"Fine, not my best, but five bucks say I make you laugh by the end of this project."

"Too easy," Clove scoffs.

"That's what I've been told." Hunching his shoulders inward, Cato effectively narrows the space between them, and gives her a seductive wink.

"Not really making a good case for yourself," Clove remarks, entirely unamused. After a few uncomfortable moments pass, Clove swats him with a folder, "Cut it out!"

His attention is on the professor once more, who has made his way around the room, passing out death certificates and stealing candy from small children in record time. Resuming his former position of relapsed junkie, Cato leans into his arms, and attempts to listen attentively as Professor Abernathy further explains the project.

With a soft sigh, Clove digs into her mess of a messenger bag and fetches a plastic bottle, drowning her desk in crumpled up papers and post-it notes. Reaching over him, Clove places the peace offer on the blonde's desk, and prods him to accept.

He has half the bottle down his gullet in three seconds flat.

"Thanks," Cato replies. "Truce?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Clove returns, mostly in jest. With a little bit of hydration, Cato looks volumes healthier. Much less like a strung-out meth addict, and more like a Disney kid gone rogue, so not _great_, but not darn awful either.

As the girl aside Cato hands him a stack of papers, Clove marks down the date of their first assignment - the one that has been artfully titled [the] 'getting to know you' assessment. And on this wondrous assessment, it seems both parties ask reciprocal basic information about one another that seems better apt for a Myspace bulletin straight of 2006.

"You're not getting my middle name," is the first thing out of Clove's mouth as she peruses the questions detailed.

"Is it Mildred?" Cato inquires, chewing on the cap of his pen.

"Ethel?"

"Bet it's-"

"This isn't Caesar's Palace, sweetums."

"So it's definitely not Gladys?"

"My birthday is August 31st," she cuts.

"That's my brother's birthday," and there's a smile that brightens Cato's tone. Dropping his phone with a thud onto the desk, Cato adds, "My very melodramatic brother."

"That's question number 7," Clove announces, "And if you want melodrama, you should meet my sister, she's 22. Bet she could out-drama your brother any day."

"Marvel's 20, and you'd lose that bet" Cato orients his desk towards Clove, and then opens his mouth, "And then ther-"

"Number 8 is about allergies. My kryptonite happens to be mangy, tick-infested felines, and yours are...?"

Cato closes his mouth, then muses for a moment. "No allergies. 'Less you're counting hospitals."

"I'm going to assume that was a smart-mouthed remark, and strike it from the record."

"Good idea," he says, a half smirk edging its way up his his face, before he settles on number nine. "Six words you would place on your headstone?"

"I wanted to be cremated."

"That's five words."

"_comma_ 'morons'"

Stifling a laugh, Cato cocks his head to the right. "Think mine would be along the lines of 'And they never saw it coming.'"

And there's a pit in her stomach, where Clove isn't too sure what the blonde's angle is, because despite the ease he makes the remark in, there's weight to the statement, significance or something. She retracts, looking him over uncomfortably, with a slur of words on the cusp of her lips when Professor Abernathy cuts her off.

Cato's chin sinks into his arms, and Clove's suddenly left with more questions than answers.

* * *

**AN** - I've been working on an outline for this story, which is more like a clutter of ideas I am trying to tie together. Cato and Clove's project will explained more thoroughly in the following chapters, as it will set the tone/pace for the chapters.

_If you're going to favorite/follow, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated._


	4. She's Into Determination

_Well we all need a place where were allowed to slow down,_  
_And were allowed to hide out on the weekends._  
_400 miles, I ll be home in while,_  
_But I'm never on time if you know me._

- The Alternate Routes

* * *

**Fall Semester, Week 1:** _Wednesday, then Friday_

* * *

"If I was arrested, you'd post my bail, right?"

"Alright, I'll roll with it. Hi to you too, Clove."

"Yeah, yeah, hi. Answer the question."

"S'long as you didn't leave the murder weapon here."

"Gimme a little credit, Gale," Clove pesters. "Think I'll start with a kitchen knife down his throat, and then an excavation of his internal organs."

"Jeez, which ones?"

Clove's mouth opens as she edges the phone closer to her ear, then purses into a taut frown as a girl at the bus stop inches towards the farthest corner opposite her. "Probably start with the small intestines and then-" she begins, turning away with a huff as the girl dabs anxiously at her touchscreen phone. "Pretty sure the girl next to me is texting 911, Gale. Do something," Clove complains.

There's a shuffle on the other end of the line, before Gale calls out, "Where do you think you're going, Sage!"

"Leash doesn't seem like such a bad idea anymore, does it?" Clove questions smugly.

"Not funny, Lo."

"Hilarious, actually."

"Gotcha!" she hears him beam, and then he says directly to her, "I know you don't want to hear it, but maybe you should ease up on him. Catnip said he has lots of problems as it is."

She simmers for a minute, before scrunching her nose in protest. Gale and Katniss are a taboo she doesn't touch with a sixty-foot pole ala South Park Jesus. _Thank you, Netflix subscription. _

"Yeah, and I'm about to be his next. E Pluribus unum, Gale. Ever heard of that?"

"What kind of bus?"

"It's on the quarter, and it means 'out of many, one.' Justice club runs on that motto. We operate as a single body, with each of us taking on different responsibilities and as of yesterday, he only had one, and that was showing up!"

"Sorry to hear he ruined your first meeting, then."

Clove's scoff interrupts his next statement. "As if. Prince Harry didn't ruin anything. I expect the best, but am fully capable of handling the worst. We already have thirty-three students enlisted in club committees."

"Can't bribe the freshman with pizza every meeting," Gale points out. "Speaking of, I left you some dinner."

"If it were Valentine's Day, I'd get you a dozen roses."

"And probably maim me with the thorns," he accuses.

Clove's lips twitch upwards as she boards the campus shuttle, shuffling past a few students heading towards night classes. "I didn't even tell you the worst part of my day," Clove detours. "So my thesis professor is at best a total crackpot, at worst a sex offender, and he's making us do this weird partner project together. And at the end of the semester we have to prepare a twenty-minute presentation on our partner's life story with all their hopes and dreams. I'm getting diabetes just thinking about it."

"What does that have to do with criminal justice?"

Clove leans right, "Technically? Not a fucking thing, but Dr. Nutcase seems to think if we identify each other's biases, then we'll become better providers when we finish school. I happen to think he has a personal bias towards deodorant, but you don't see me making him do a project on that, now do you?"

Gale's less than subtle gaffe almost makes the rant worth it. "Has he seen your student loans?"

"I just wish he could have pushed back the mid-life crisis one semester. I'm smart, Gale, but I don't think even I can write eighteen pages on blondie's aspiration to find the world's pointiest hair gel."

A sigh reverberates on the other end, "I still say you give 'im a chance, Clove. We promised that this would be the best year of your life."

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she replies, "Yeah, you're right."

"You always got me, whether you like it or not. Got that?"

"Such a generous offer," she mocks lightly.

"Anymore generous and I'd serve you up a Hawthorne special."

"And I'd vomit everywhere, so no thanks, not interested in the forest critters, Gale."

"Hunting was a lot easier back home."

"And as sure as that may be true, I don't actually ever plan to set foot in Kentucky... Ever again."

Gale coughs a laugh, "It was not that bad."

"Your grandmother told me I ruined your life, and that your father had much better taste, but, hey, I bet she'd love Katniss."

"I brought home a box of white macadamia nut cookies."

"Thanks."

"You didn't ruin my life."

"Thanks."

"Tell me everything about your project. Apartment's clean, Sage's fed, got dinner on the table, and I want to hear all about Clove Holloway's horrible, terrible, no-good day."

"It's actually terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day."

"That one's not in my collection," Gale bites. "I'll have to fit it in right between Junie B Jones and Go Dogs Go."

"I'm more preferential to the Berenstain Bears, myself."

"I'm giving you ten seconds before I hang up."

Clove pulls the cord, prompting the bus driver to acknowledge her stop request with a nod. "Reign it in, grumpy bear."

The girl from earlier steals a glance at her, then dips back into her Psych textbook. It's all genius and insanity at the University of Virginia.

"So from what I've read in the syllabus so far, it's a twelve week project broken down class period by class period on each year of your life. Like I fucking remember anything from when I was one, and seriously, this is pretty damn intimate stuff to be telling someone you don't know anything about. They get to hear your first memory and the worst moment of your life and stuff I'd really rather not think about."

Gale coughs, "Isn't that the point?"

Shrugging sharply, Clove grimaces, "But by the end of the semester this stranger will end up even better informed than Ann, and I'm not counting that as a good thing no matter how Doctor Hackjob wants to spin it."

"What you disclose is up to your discretion, technically, right? He can't read your mind," Gale says, "So maybe you should have some fun with it."

"God blessed you something fierce, Gale. When you get a good idea, it's a fucking fantastic idea."

"Wait, Clo-"

"Maybe it's time to play ball and show William and Harry what happens when you try to pull a fast one on Clove Holloway."

* * *

Though it's a fresh day in September, the sun's found its home just beyond the cloud cover.

Marvel would make a statement about it raining cats and dogs, but that painfully reminds the curly-haired boy of his beloved Porkchop - a path best left untraveled. It's probably fair to mention that he's presently alone in his dorm room, so he'd be furthering his roommate Jackson's assertion that he's halfway unhinged with serious mommy issues.

That's not even the half of it, though, Marvel thinks. His daddy issues are way worse.

His left cheek is pressed against the cool mattress, his green eyes focused on the blanket of rainy fog enveloping the perimeter outside of his dormitory. Considering the building's hillside locale, he deems it best to stick indoors; one stride outdoors could become easy cause for a stumble into a chasm with no end.

Or he could become just another faceless victim for next week's rerun of Forensic Files.

Today seems like the perfect day for a murder, and who the hell thinks like that? He needs to take a Spanish class or something, and stop letting theater (and a very theatrical older brother) cloud his thinking. Still, if there are two thing that show's taught him, it's don't mess with Texas and don't get married.

The episode that gives him the most nightmares ends with a man being lured into the desert, shot, and subsequently buried alive.

"Wonder how they found his body," he muses quietly.

"You'd be surprised what they can do with forensics."

Marvel flails out of bed, smacking the side of his head against the brick wall in surprise. "How the hell did you get in here!"

He can only catch shadows of Cato's face, and he wonders for a second if they might find his body buried in the desert next.

"You wouldn't pick up your phone."

"So you decided to go all Hannibal Lecter on me instead?" Marvel retorts, still airy and uncoordinated, throwing a calculator at the blonde's right shoulder.

"You wouldn't pick up your phone," Cato repeats, and his pitch breaks in protest. Marvel's eyes struggle to find light, and then he sees it. It'd be creepy if it wasn't so pathetic. Nope, actually, it's both. He's creepy and pathetic and just so glaringly sad.

Cato is soaked entirely from head to toe, but the droplets on his cheeks are an entirely different matter.

"Phone's been dead for a few days. I left the charger in Charlottesville, but I sent you a text as soon as I got Sam to lend me his."

Cato's hands shuffle to his pockets until he finds his own, and then his expression softens at the barrage of messages he'd received in the commute from Virginia to Maryland - aside from a few texts from Glimmer, two from Thresh, and three missed calls from Katniss, there's also a log of messages that Marvel had shot him.

_5:22 Phone died. _

_5:22 Made it back a-okay._

_5:22 Do'ya think there's a b-okay?_

_5:23 What about a c-okay? _

_5:47 I Wikipedia'd it. A-ok comes from the sign you make with your hand. Looks more like a b to me. _

_6:09 I hate it when we fight._

_6:11 Stop worrying about me. Being poor in Baltiwhore is easy peasy. _

_6:11 Oh my god. The guy who leads group, Perry, he says that to us all the time. 'Easy peasy.' Like, yeah, man, easy fucking peasy until I jab your eyeball out with a fork. _

_6:11 Hoanna is rubbing off on me. Idk, bro, I feel like hanging out with CVille fat cats is def the more insurmountable challenge. _

_6:11 Did'ya see that? I used your word of the day calendar. Seriously, coast is clear in Bodymore, Murderland. _

_6:12 I really really hate it when we fight. _

Cato's arms snake around his neck quickly and Marvel instinctively becomes rigid, when his brother's confused blue eyes meet his, and he realizes that Cato's intent wasn't malicious.

"You're afraid of me," Cato says softly.

"Nah," Marvel says, pushing him away lightly. "You're protective and really annoying - which would better apt if we had a little sister who needed that. As is, I may scream like a girl, but just so happen to be a twenty-year-old man."

Cato laughs, his face down. Marvel's always thought his brother has the best laugh. His real laugh, with flushed cheeks, and averted eyes. Not the slick one he uses to get his way.

Marvel wraps his arms around the blonde's shoulders, and remarks hoarsely, "I hate it when we fight."

"Me too."

"But seriously, how the fuck did you get past the front desk without ID?"

"I might have introduced myself to desk-clerk Della, and asked if she's the girl you've had your eyes on since freshman year." He says with a breathy laugh. He continues on, unperturbed, "She's grossly nice. I think I'm going to add her on Facebook. What are you waiting for anyways, Mar?"

"You didn't call her Della, did you?" Marvel pales, cringing as the duo break apart.

"I don't think I called her anything, why?" Cato replies, scratching his neck and lifting himself onto Jackson's bed, holding a pillow to his chest.

"Because her name is Delly, Cato!"

"Fuck, that is her name, isn't it. What kind of name is Delly?" he deflects, looking semi-apologetic with a weak grin.

"It's short for Deliverance!" Marvel gripes. "She's the parishioner's daughter, and her family happens to be really nice."

Cato bounces slight on the bed, grinning wider, "I was going to say I think she likes you, but if you've met her parents, I'm betting you already knew that. So what's the hold up?"

"Taking that out of context, good. Awesome." Marvel rolls his eyes, "Her parents come to every performance of every play, Cato."

"Still," Cato insists.

He wouldn't introduce just anyone to his parents... er, his parent. Not anyone he wanted to keep around, but still. That typically means _something_.

"We've got auditions soon, and it's a competitive season."

"S'not like you're trying out for the same roles."

"Doesn't stop it from bringing out the worst in people, though."

"In her?" Cato inquires.

"In me," Marvel sulks. "Frosh are required to audition with the knowledge that they won't win any roles, and I sorta bit her head off during our first audition a few years back. So, yeah, can't really make a move right now without that black cloud looming 'round."

Cato's phone rings, and Marvel thinks to himself maybe he should join the congregation with such good luck. He can only faintly hear a girl on the other line asking where Cato is as he answers. "Drove to Baltimore to check in on my kid brother."

"He's fine."

"Yeah, I'm not fond of Baltimore either."

The girl on the line's voice lifts, and then Cato grimaces, "Ah, fuck. I forgot, and she just reminded a couple hours ago. Think she'll be mad?"

There's a short reply, then Cato leans his head back against the wall, "Alright, thanks for the warning, Kat. I'll make sure to wear protective gear."

"What was that all about?" he asks.

"I joined a club."

"Haven't you joined them all?" Marvel teases, mirroring his trademark smirk.

"Different sort of club." Cato says, grabbing him in a headlock, and scruffing up his messy brown locks, "So, I may have just unknowingly pissed off the scariest girl in Virginia."

Marvel's shit-eating grin leads to more scruffing of the hair, and he pipes up, "What'd ya do?"

"I might have just accidentally defied her absolute authority by ditching the first meeting of her presidential dictatorship."

Marvel cackles a little, before ringing him up a dozen cliches about not playing with fire.

* * *

As Clove mulls over the last of her syllabi, she leans against the wall, pulling the laptop closer to her. In the background tabs, various other justice interns videos are open, awaiting mandated feedback.

Marissa's is the first she picks on principal, her's detailing the massive anxiety she's accruing already from being one of three intern's for felony city attorney, Gloss Weller.

As her neurotic video comes to a close, Marissa finishes with, "I hope to gather a better understanding of what role the public plays into justice for all."

Clove's eyes trail towards the carpet. It's silent now, but it's only a matter of time before old man Cray returns.

_What role does the public play in justice?_

Did she do the red-haired woman downstairs a grave injustice by calling the police? What were the long-standing effects of the call? Did he reassess his behaviors, grow even more callous, or presume indifference?

What are the consequences of her hasty decision?

Cato's video begins directly after Marissa's.

"My mentor is Officer Odair."

_Officer _Odair.

Clove almost laughs.

Cato adjusts his thick, black-rimmed glasses, and smiles. Those are new. "His beat is actually away from campus, centered in south Charlottesville, closer to Albemarle High, so we focus more on what the kids do. They're pretty funny."

Minimizing his video tab, Clove jots down more topics to address in her own intern video diary. He continues in the background, "The class that has helped me most so far was Weber's Domestic Violence and Justice class. It's a lot more common than I thought it would be, a lot trickier too."

He prattles on about protocol, safety, supervision, until the video ends with, "Sorry I missed Rec Club. I'll be there next week, promise," and then the program asks if she wants to replay the video.

Great, Clove thinks.

Switching to the main tab of her browser, Clove attempts to start hers once again. "So, week one of my internship at Adult Probation is over."

Her textbook falls off the table, ruining the take, and she may let out a few age-inappropriate expletives.

Clove groans, fidgeting with her computer screen. She clicks 'cancel' and then edges her chair into a better angle to begin the recording again.

"So, week one of my internship at Adult Prob- bleh." she whines, pulling her hair behind her neck and staring at the reflection on the screen. Her undereye lines are entirely too prominent, her hair is uneven and wild, and she's not even going to bother primping herself for this ten point assignment, especially with the posting deadline looming dangerously close.

She contemplates a brief cost-benefit analysis of allowing her peers to see her in her pajamas. Laziness wins.

Her script, which consists of numerous abbreviations in the url bar of her Firefox browser reminding her to go over various topics, is incoherent.

_She_ is incoherent.

Clove sighs, clicking the red circle. "This is like take twenty-three, so I apologize in advance for sounding like a lunatic." She punctuates the sentence with sleepy smile.

"My first week at Adult Probation has come to a close, and I guess you could say it's both every bit of what I expected, and yet not immune to its own surprises."

Peering into the url bar, she answers the first prompt.

**Why did you choose your placement?**

"I picked Adult Probation because I know what it's like to want a second chance, to wish you had made a better decision the first time, and Probation both fulfills a public safety need and helps reintegrate first and maybe second-time offenders back into a healthy mindset without forcing them into an institution that would only make it even more difficult for them to be a productive member of society."

Her mind unwillingly strays to Cato, his stack of apologies, topped by the tin of hot cocoa on her kitchen shelf. _Katniss said you have a thing for it, and I have thing for people who honor their obligations, so here. Um, that wasn't supposed be a come-on. ...Sorry._

**How has your mentor influenced your beliefs about this placement?**

Clove contemplates starting over, but picks up. "My mentor is really prickly, like cactus-status or something."

She looks at her nail beds, before her heart skips. "Oh God, I just remembered this is public. Alright, we're all going to do cousin Clove a favor and not tattle to her superiors. Capiche?" Clove attempts to wink, but mostly grimaces clumsily. "Yeah, she's brutal, and totally a Hokie, but she's a no-nonsense one-woman candy stand, and she keeps up with the big boys just as well as anyone else."

Adjusting herself, Clove asks, "Do'ya think it's possible to have senioritis during your first week of senior year?"

**What course do you feel best prepared you for this internship? What is a course that you recommend?**

"Um, to be perfectly honest, I'd say that Courts and Justice was probably the most helpful class I've taken. It's really hard to empower someone to make changes if you don't understand what they risk to lose if they commit another crime, and Enobaria says that she makes a lot of recommendations to the court on her probationers' behalf, so it's all a lot of the same sort of stuff." Clove hesitates for a second, watching the timer on the video for an idle moment.

A fly buzzes behind her, and the cage's bell rings a few times by the door.

Clove blinks sleepily, struggling to keep her eyes open. "Most of what I know about corrections came from endless hours of Googling, so I'd make the statement that we need a Corrections course, but I have it on good authority that it's already in the works."

**What do you hope to learn most?**

"Why someone so close to achieving their goals would just give it up for nothing."

Her posture slackens slightly.

"I'll let you guys know when I find out."

* * *

AN - Alright, so I've officially outlined this story chapter by chapter and it's around 35 chapters. The outline will likely change, but the bulk of the interaction will begin next chapter.

_If you're going to favorite/follow, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated._


	5. The Firecracker Instinct

_Well baby I don't want to take advice from fools_

_I'll just figure everything is cool_

_Until I hear it from you._

- Gin Blossoms

* * *

**Fall Semester, Week 2**

* * *

Enobaria's probationers fall into two boats: dumb and 'where the hell do you find these guys?'

In seven days Clove has met a member of the Latin Kings, a Blood, no Crips, but two chronically homeless men, a crystal meth junkie, and a former ward of the state.

Getting to know her new homie g from the Latin Kings was definitely the bright spot in a rather shitty first week of school. Clove was barely able to taper the impulse to ask if he chose the thug life or if the thug life chose him.

The world becomes painfully monotonous when she returns to work on Monday. Where is the bustle and excitement? She expects a few acid trips and fist fights in the lobby, not the dead wind of office work.

By the time she and Enobaria finally bustle into daylight for afternoon home visits, she's happier than a clam. And when they set foot on Autumn Hill Apartments, she trails hesitantly behind.

_I am going to be in so much trouble. _

You don't mix business with pleasure, and you don't take work home with you. She's broken at least one of the rules, and probably both.

Unfortunately, there is nothing extraordinary about their client, Casey Clark - she's looked over his file more than a dozen times - and that's exactly what makes him extraordinary. Usually, she can pinpoint their critical error, and chime "Aha! That's where you ruined your life."

Casey Clark is a paragon of normalcy.

He's a white, high-school educated laborer. Not exactly the archetype of oppression.

The forty-two year old man is not a sex offender, does not appear to be an addict, is not affiliated with any street gangs, not periodically homeless, he's just... Well, from what she's gathered, Casey Clark is just a bad guy.

And Clove is beginning to wonder if the second floor of her complex is merely a ruse for a joint housing program by Virginia Department of Corrections and Charlottesville Police - envisioned as something tacky like "a second chance for the last-time offender."

Six doors separate Casey Clark and Wilbur Cray. As if the broken glass litter the parking lot didn't terrify her enough.

Clove barely has enough time to choke on her unease before Enobaria is beckoned in.

The first thing Clove notices about Casey Clark is that his apartment is much tidier than she thought it would be. The second thing she notices is his ankle bracelet, and this is all before she catches his face.

He drops down onto a leather couch. "And I thought the minx came to play," Mr. Clark says deviously. "Shame the kit tagged along," he adds, eying Clove warily.

Mr. Clark is the poor man's Bruce Willis: tan, ridiculously muscular, with a thin layer of blonde hair, blue eyes, suited in a wifebeater.

"How are your courses going?" Enobaria inquires, her tone dull. She prompts Clove for his paperwork, and leafs through it. "Last we met, you'd moved towards section nine. You should have progressed to stage eleven by now."

"There are better things to do on the internet than take classes, sugar tits."

"Mr. Clark, are you aware that I make recommendations to the court on your behalf?"

"Don't get dressed this nice for anyone, minx," he drawls.

"Then try to behave." He smirks at that, and she mocks, "Congratulations on four months sober."

He's been her client four months. He's always been sober.

"I'm not one of those welfare bitches living off the government," he scowls.

_Yeah, they're actually trying._

"Have something to say, sweetheart?"

_I need to work on my poker face?_

"Probation is a lot more expensive than food stamps," Clove says. "But, hey, college students work for a nominal fee of, well, nothing and they come with a lot of repressed knowledge to freely distribute, so there's that."

"That's not all they freely distribute," he says, edging dangerously closer to her with a predatory smirk.

"Brutus!" Enobaria yells, slamming her fist on the coffee table, moving herself in between the two of them.

Clove backs away, startled, and hits the wall hard. Swallowing, she observes Brutus' face contort in surprise, before he recovers with a seductive glance and a sleezy grin.

"You hot for me, Barry? You don't have to get territorial. There's plenty of me to go around," he says, huskily. "Name's a little kinky, but I'll take it. If that's what you're into."

Enobaria's eyes flash furiously.

"Mr. Clark, are you aware that you've never violated a curfew, never tested positive, have not earned so much as a speeding ticket, but are dangerously close to probation revocation anyways?"

His Cheshire cat grin widens, "You'd still keep in touch, though. Right, babe?"

"Sit your ass down, Mr. Clark!"

Brutus puts his hands up in surrender, "Lighten up. You're too tense."

Enobaria crosses her arms, considering his words. "Mr. Clark, I have been in your home for fifteen minutes and we have had two lines of dialogue about your case progression. Or, maybe, more accurately, the lack of progression. There are several individuals in my workload whom actually need my services, and instead I am being harassed by you."

"But, honey, I do need your services."

There's an abrupt, uncomfortable silence. Brutus raises his eyebrows suggestively, but Enobaria doesn't respond at first. It's then Clove notices she looks ready to laugh.

_She's losing it._

Enobaria stands up tall, then works in vain to veil her impatience. "You know, it's too bad such a sweet talker spouts such foul words."

"I speak the gospel, nothing less," he says, not missing a beat.

"And exactly what good has the done you?"

He smiles, relishing in the dialogue. "I live by my convictions. Now, Mrs. Abernathy, can you honestly say you live by yours?"

He sounds fond as he says her name. It almost turns Clove's stomach.

"I can honestly say you need to schedule more appointments with your therapist."

"She doesn't understand me like you do," he says, grabbing her hand.

It takes her a second to yank it away, and then Enobaria retorts coolly, "Do not forget your five o'clock curfew."

"Aw, Barry, that's not fair! Barry!"

Clove scurries out behind Enobaria, closing the door. "Spreading the gospel?"

"That fathead also happens to be a skinhead."

"But you're not..."

"White?" Enobaria finishes, and Clove nods. "Anything with a pulse. Hell, anything that will give him the time of day. Still want to roll the die in this line of work, rook?"

They're returning to the car when Clove catches Finnick and Cato leaving Mr. Cray's residence for the second time. "I'm still figuring that out," she says to herself as she watches Finnick pat Cato's shoulder encouragingly.

* * *

Cato meets junior Marissa Volpe just before September 11th, on that very same Monday. The lithe redhead flags him down on a visit from the Prosecutor's Office for a file transfer request, breezily reassuring him Clove will soften up in a few days and they'll be the best of friends, before extending an invite to Rec Club's executive council meeting that very same night.

He attends, but as it turns out, Clove doesn't feel the need to address him.

Then again, she doesn't have much of a chance with vice president Darius' thirty-seven minute monologue about the value of inviting the co-founder of the Black Panther Party to give a guest lecture.

But, there's a catch. A $6000 catch.

Cato hangs back, artfully withholding commentary, even though he can see the smoke rising from Clove's ears. It's Katniss who asks the pertinent questions, who saves Darius from a capital sentence.

By Wednesday, he's all but given up on Clove.

The girl beside him hands him the stack of graded papers, and begins talking to her group partner about having been born in Rhode Island. Today's assignment is to gather information about the first year of your partner's life - their family life, hometown, siblings, and other mementos passed on from their parents.

Cato retrieves his assignment from the pile, then burrows for Clove's.

He wants to bury the assignment, pretend he never saw it. In red ink is a big, fat 0.

Cato hands it to her gingerly, its angry aura hot to the touch. "Dr. A made a mistake with your paper."

And to think he was going to complain about scoring a 29 out of 30. He skims his assessment, appraising for mistakes. Clove's date of birth is redacted in green ink. His sloppy '1991' is stricken out, corrected in tiny print with 1992.

Yeah, there's mistakes all around today, because that can't be right.

He's not aggrieved enough to care.

"Better luck next time" Clove says from behind him.

"Clove, zero is not a statistic. Even writing the paper should have gotten you a few points."

Cato turns around, trying to read her paper upside down, before he gives up and hijacks right out of her very hands. She leans back into her seat, entire uninterested in his tirade. "You know, I don't have my doctorate," he begins, "but I'm willing to bet this is probably one of the better-written papers he read."

Clove forces a shrug, to which Cato continues to stares her down. "You don't say anything, I will. Who knows how many other students' papers he's wrecked."

The threat inspires motion. Clove violently snatches him by the collar of his t-shirt, and grits harshly into his ear, "Don't even think about it."

"Then tell me what's going on."

"It's none of your business."

"The hell it is!" Cato balks. A few classmates turn and stare, then return to their work. He raises his hand despite Clove's string of vulgarities. If someone like her can get a zero, what's to stop him from being next?

Dr. Abernathy wanders over painfully slow, and leans onto an empty desk beside Clove. "Yes, Mister Elroy?"

Cato hands him the paper in a flurry, "There was a mistake on Clove's assignment and she was too embarrassed to let you know."

It's like clockwork. Clove turns away from the conversation, cringing.

"Ever heard of FERPA, Mister Elroy?" Dr. Abernathy asks apathetically, but with just enough contempt to leave Cato reeling. "Ms. Holloway's work is her own business."

After their professor's returned to another pair of students, Cato turns to Clove and accuses, "Professors love you."

"We've had two classes together. You've hardly seen a representative sample," Clove says, leaning into her arms with a haughty huff, eyes closed in resignation.

"You could go to the dean."

"Pretty sure I'm lucky he's not going to the dean."

"What did you do?" he asks conspiratorially.

Clove looks up, fixes her posture, reaches over his shoulder, steals his paper, and pulls him out of the classroom all in a single motion.

"My hometown is not Stoneybrook."

"It's not?"

I don't have a dog named Happy."

"That is a pretty stupid name."

"My parent's names aren't Piper and Leo. My most influential teacher wasn't Ms. Honey. My best friend's names aren't Emma and Manny. I don't have an Uncle Jesse, or an Uncle Joey. I have an Uncle Brick in South Dakota, but he wasn't a cast member of Full House or anything!"

Entirely lost, Cato dares to ask, "What?"

"None of the answers I gave you were true," Clove spells out for him.

"Yeah, I think I got that much," he replies slowly, " but why?"

"Because you missed our first meeting."

Cato's heard of an eye for an eye, but this is more like an eye for a hangnail. And she actually thinks this is a fair trade-off, like it's a reasonably normal level of retribution to potentially ruin someone's grade for something so trivial.

"So, let me get this straight, you tried to sabotage my grades because I ditched your stupid club?" he shakes his head, whispering angrily. Looking down at her spitefully, he snaps, "Are you crazy?"

Clove is in his face in an instant, jabbing at his chest. "If it's so fucking stupid, then why the hell did you join?" Clove snarls.

"I made a mistake!"

"I'll make sure to tell Dr. Emerson that," Clove hisses, icily.

"No," Cato shakes his head in frustration. "I made a mistake by missing the meeting, but don't you think you are blowing things out of proportion?"

"No."

Her body language begs to differ.

"Then you better never have kids, Clove, because they'd be fucked."

There's a flash of raw vulnerability across her face, then Clove is grabbing her things from the desk, and hurriedly dumping them haphazardly into her bag.

"Hey, wait-"

She pushes past him, and sends him off with a very poignant "Fuck you!" before storming out of sight.

Cato exhales, returning to his seat. Dr. Abernathy moves on from consulting with the last pair of students, and says in a dry tone tone to the class. "Drop deadline is this Friday."

"Maybe there's a nice poetry class you'd rather be taking."

Cato runs his palms across his face and releases a sigh.

* * *

"Glimmer!"

"On the phone!"

"Then I hope you don't mind the apartment burning down!"

The mess of blonde waves bursts into his room impressively fast. So, that works, he notes. Glimmer takes a second to catch her breath, spinning in all directions, "Uh-uh, Ca-to, where's the fi-fire?"

He drags her towards the chair he's sitting in. "You didn't tell me you know Clove."

"Who?" Glimmer asks, disoriented. She leans over the shoulder of his desk chair, and smacks the side of his head. "You can't just yell out fire for no reason. Pretty sure that's in the constitution, genius."

"No, it's not, and besides, this is important." Cato redirects. "What if this was the last time you ever saw me? How would you live with yourself knowing you just callously ignored my cries for help?"

"I'd say thanks for the free 4.0."

"Do the words negligent homicide mean anything to you?"

"If this is your audition for the school play, you might want to consider hiring a better script writer." Glimmer yawns.

"Glimmer!"

"You realize I have over a thousand friends on Facebook, right?"

Cato rolls his eyes, "Yes, and you're gorgeous and super smart too. Can we feed your fat ego later?"

"God, it's like living with Kimmy Gibbler. Open her page."

Glimmer leans heavier on his shoulder, staring at the picture of Clove and another dark-haired girl with a birthday cake. "Pretty sure she was one of my orientees, sophomore year."

"She's in senior thesis with me."

Glimmer shrugs, "Then I probably met her at a party."

Cato snorts. "No."

"I was on the phone, Cato."

"C'mon, Glim. I will start running with you in the morning."

"You're lucky my parents taught me the importance of sharing with the less fortunate."

Cato snorts, "And saddled you with just enough daddy issues to let you jump ship."

"Low blow," she chides.

"I aim to please," Cato says, smugly.

"That explains your lack of suitors."

"Hey!" he protests as she steals his last piece of gum off the desk.

She gives him a pointed look,"Alright, so let's start with inductive reasoning."

"What?"

"What kind of second rate detective are you?" she says in exasperation, "Start with what you two have in common, because according to Facebook mobile we share one friend and that would be your very pretty boyfriend."

"Walk the stalk, Glim."

"On one condition."

"Hm?"

"You and Jo try harder to get along."

"Do I look like a miracle worker?" Cato protests.

"You pick me up some Fabios after your meeting."

He pulls her into a bear hug, grinning, "Deal."

* * *

Their mutual friends are Finnick, Glimmer, Katniss, and Katniss's boyfriend - which is extraordinarily unhelpful.

When he arrives at the underground library fifteen minutes early, he isn't surprised to find Clove meandering through her school books. She doesn't say a word.

He can't muster any himself.

The meeting's brief.

Katniss rattles off a list of upcoming social events and day trips to a crowd consisting of mostly freshman - the county jail, bonfires, the morgue, movie nights, the crime lab, and a weekend picnic - and then they agree to meet in two weeks.

That's it.

He waits for the classroom to clear - Katniss and Marissa giving him a weary look as they leave - before striding over towards Clove.

"You're a good photographer. Katniss made me look through six albums worth of portfolio material," she says, not looking up from her day planner.

It's color-coded.

If only people were that simple.

"Yeah?"

Clove pulls her hair back, and looks up, "I overreacted."

Shuffling her things in her arms, Clove adds, "You'll figure out that's a reoccurring theme in la vie in Clove. I panic. I panic all the time. And, I'm not leadership material, but I'm trying, and I hope you'll stick around long enough to see that."

He'd have thought living with Glimmer would have taught him something, Jesus, anything about how to talk to women.

"_You_ didn't get a zero by making all _my_ answers wrong," he wonders to himself.

Big, fat NOPE.

Clove nods at him like he's slow. "Yeah, and you can't make bricks without clay."

"Do you answer every question with a question?"

"Are you aware that was not a question?"

He blatantly ignores her droll. "I'm a certified expert in fucking things up, so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt."

Because there are only so many hatchets they can bury in one day.

"Never give me the benefit of anything. That's rule one."

Cato loosens his shoulders, and leans back. "And rule two?"

"Hot cocoa should never be tainted by blood money."

"What?"

"You have a shiny 29 because I gave Dr. A all my dirty little secrets. God, what a dick."

_Occam's Razor: The simplest answer is most often correct._

"Well, most people don't throw wrenches in their own plans, Clove."

"Your cannister of cocoa sat on my kitchen shelf all weekend, which is a serious testament to my self-control. So, yeah, fuck you and all your black magic. But after I coughed up that confession, I made myself the fattest cup of cocoa and had me a merry little Christmas."

Cato scratches his head, genuinely perplexed, but he's smiling. "Didn't figure you the type for a guilty conscience."

"You're a jerk, you know that?" Clove snipes, pushing at him petulantly.

"Yeah, but I come with free mugs of hot chocolate and a lifetime supply of good looks."

"And enough hot air for the Hindenberg."

"My own Liz Lemon," he chortles.

"And you're Alec Baldwin."

"You mean Jack."

"Not at all," Clove says, dryly.

_Yeah, we're definitely going to be friends. _

* * *

**AN** - Gale/Clove and Glimmer/Cato will be clarified upon, as will Cato's issues with his mother. Each chapter will divulge more as they go further into the biography project. Free cookie to the person who figures out the most of Clove's prank references! Thank you for all the love last chapter. I'm excited to get into the thick of things, and encouragement always helps!

_If you're going to favorite/follow, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated._


	6. A Renegade Dream

_Like a game of chess, I predict your move_  
_I think I know you better, better than you do_  
_I'm sick of feeling cheap, cheated and abused_  
_Sick of losing sleep, thinking about you._

- The Downtown Fiction

* * *

**Fall Semester, Week Three**

* * *

"Can I be honest?" Clove asks, barely able to hear herself as she tugs at the sleeves of her turquoise top with unease.

"I'd most certainly prefer it."

It's eleven am on a Monday.

"I've never done anything like this before. Talked to a shrink, I mean. It's making me a little seasick."

Normally she'd be tagging along with Enobaria and scouring the city for wrong-doers.

She's had this appointment set for three weeks. It was a bitch to get. Only the looniest of the loony toons she goes to school with would make advanced reservations to see the school counselor anticipating the stress of their return to campus. As if a school counselor can fix someone with a 19 credit course load in Chemical Engineering. She's a shrink, not a voodoo shaman.

"I'm not a shrink, Clove. I'm a counselor, and rest assured that it's normal for students to look for someone they can have a healthy discourse with."

The 'not shrink,' Euphemia (so says the masters in counseling diploma dangling on the back wall), is a fair-haired woman draped in an eccentric fuchsia dress who Clove would peg as likelier to be engaged in fashion design than psychology.

"Have the past two weeks been stressful for you?"

Clove snatches up a Hershey's kiss from the shrink's bowl. "Every week is stressful for me."

"And what helps you manage?"

"Reciting three hail marys and praying that I'll reincarnate as a hotel heiress."

"Right," the counselor smiles slightly. "Well, you scheduled this appointment to talk about relationship boundaries. That's quite an interesting topic for someone your age. Most students aren't so self-aware at such a young age."

Clove leans back, muttering, "Hard not to be when it's this obvious."

"Why don't we start at the beginning, then?"

"Sure," Clove agrees haphazardly. "Um, alright. Well, I'm from Lovingston. Bout' five years back my sister had to pair up for an assignment and she got assigned to the new guy from Kentucky - Gale Hawthorne."

Clove tucks a loose strand of hair back, grazing her knee with the palm of her hand.

"Clove?"

It strikes her that there is a bathroom down the hall. She could leave the room under that very pretense, to never return. She owes no one no explanations.

But it isn't fair. This story has been disseminated a handful of times, and never by her hand.

She steadies herself, and moves forward. "So, he became a pretty regular guest in household over those few weeks. Right before October, he and Annie were finishing up when the computer short-circuited and deleted most of their revisions. My sister had a panic attack, and instead of freaking out like a normal person would, Gale actually managed to calm her down. Then he made her dinner, and started telling her a bunch of embarrassing stories about himself to make her feel better. He was different, you know? Annie used to say Gale was a real southern gentleman."

Euphemia (or Effie, as her business card states) watches Clove for a minute, "Well, he certainly did well in that situation. He sounds... resourceful."

Clove looks up towards Effie, her hair falling behind her as she sits on her palms. "Do you listen to Taylor Swift?"

"I imagine everyone has at some point."

"She has a song, Fifteen, and every time I hear it, I think about how much I needed that song when I was fifteen. Gale was older, and sure, Annie wasn't at the top of the food chain, but even she had a better chance with him than I did."

Effie seems to consider interrupting, but ultimately doesn't. She does scribble more notes. Clove doesn't even want to know.

"A couple weeks later he found me smoking outside of Rapunzel's - this old book store where they used to host open mic nights. Gale said I reminded him of home, everyone smoked in Kentucky. It wasn't exactly a Pulitzer-winning opening line, but hey, it got the ball rolling on our fairy tale romance," Clove scoffs bitterly.

Effie watches Clove take tissue and form it into the shape of a ribbon as she continues, dryly adding, "Then he started to ask how I could possibly ruin the wondrous trees around me by smoking. This was literally the first thing he noticed. Not the ridiculous pixie pigtails, not the three hundred neon bracelets around my wrist, or the fact that I was wearing enough eyeliner to fool a raccoon. Jungle boy wanted to know why I smoked cigarettes."

Hitching one leg over the other, Effie points out, "Different strokes for different folks."

"I looked like a three year outlined my eyes in sharpie six times," Clove breathes, disturbed.

She places the tissue ribbon beside her.

"We ended up running circles around each other for a few weeks. I wanted him, and he wanted... Annie. Look, I love my sister, but back in high school, no one wanted Annie. She's basically Ophelia - crazy, exotic, overly dramatic, with a penchant for theatrics."

There's a beat, before she adds. "It's not all her fault, you know? She has anxiety disorder, but that's a different problem for a different shrink for a different year."

Effie's lips quirk upwards and she smooths her dress flat, agreeing primly. "Yes, one issue at time for now."

"Back to Gale. He was hot. Did I mention Gale is hot? Gale's hot, and he was smart enough to know that. He developed a reputation around school ridiculously fast for someone new. If you were lucky enough, though, you'd catch a sliver here and there of who he really was - brave, kind, intense in the best way possible."

Effie speaks softly, slowly, as if to make a point. "It's perfectly normal for teenagers to idealize their partners, but no one is perfect."

Clove exhales. "It was like hero worship." Her head falls as she brings a knee to her chest. "I was willing to do anything. My best friend, Dicey, he, we, I-" Clove flails her hands dramatically, gesturing in open air.

"I had sex with my best friend in order to convince myself I wasn't just an inexperienced little girl. Like that's how maturity works." Clove adds as an aside, "Like right now I'm working with the world's biggest manwhore on a group project, and he's on par intellectually with Snooki."

"He must be reasonably intelligent. UVA isn't your neighborhood community college."

Clove stuffs two more Hershey's Kisses into her mouth. Her face contorts in displeasure.

"He is also another problem for another shrink for another year."

"So, it's Halloween - Dicey and I had spent most of the afternoon watching movies, getting busy, then watching classic cults under the blankets. Eventually, we ended up at Thom Ender's party, and it was weird, really eclectic. Dicey found some kid with a pipe and suddenly we're all jazzed up - God, I'm lucky whatever we smoked wasn't laced with heroin, because it could have been anything and I would have been too dumb to say no. "

By this point, Clove is running her fingers through the holes in her jeans, and groaning to herself. "So here's where it gets really messed up. Gale is friends with Thom, the indie kid, and so of course he's at the party, but unlike me and Dicey, he's actually dressed up - as a lumberjack, of course - and stone-cold sober."

Effie notices a tonal shift in Clove, preempting her to prepare another box of tissue. "Here," she murmurs softly.

Clove accepts the box. "He was rugged, loose. You could just breath the sexual tension, and then he asked me if Annie was around. I set myself on a warpath, I wanted everything Annie obliterated, so I put on this sweet little mask and asked him to speak with me privately in one of the rooms. So, he took me to Thom's sister's room, and asked if everything is okay with Annie, and-"

Clove breaks, crushing the tissue box in her right hand, and covers her mouth. "I'm sorry," she sniffles, "I'm not normally a crier."

"Something tells me this was a long time coming," Effie says reassuringly, "But if you're not ready-"

"No-" she cuts in. "I made up a story about Annie and an imaginary boyfriend. And he didn't get angry, didn't really do anything, just looked really put-out. I wasn't in class with them so I didn't know what Annie did, if she'd given him any hope, or was totally oblivious, but I begged him to stay and tell me everything about Kentucky, the environment, anything."

Clove looks up, contemplative, and quiet. "He stayed and we just talked - talked, and talked until there wasn't anything left to say. And at the end of the night, he pushed back my hair and gave me a kiss on the cheek, said I'm kinder than I let on, and got up to leave, and then I just - I didn't want any games anymore. I just wanted him. So, I went for it. It was like we were characters from an indie movie, and every beat was on tempo with the music that night.

But in the morning, I felt more like we were trapped in an angry classical number. I came down from my high so fast. I was naked in a stranger's bed with some guy I didn't really know. Gale was two and a half years older than me, practically an adult. I knew Dicey inside and out, from the bottom of our hearts to the top of our heads, but half the things I knew about Gale were things I told myself that probably weren't even real."

"It's a common plight," Effie replies, penning more details. At Clove's wary stare, she offers, "What was next for the two of you?"

"I expected it to be awkward, to be a one-time thing, but it happened again, and again, but we didn't date, we weren't really friends, and Annie's therapist figured out before she did that Gale has the hots for her, so what does he do? Gives her a self-esteem exercise to see if Gale would like to go a movie with her sometime - supposedly just to help Annie make more friends - but of course Gale was such a slut that he took it entirely the wrong way and asked about her boyfriend - the one that didn't exist."

"Did the two of you talk about it?"

"Talking is not what I would have called it," Clove says grimly. "Gale found me outside of Rapunzel's - same place we met - and started screaming at me, asking if 'I'd had fun fucking with his head.'"

"And how did you respond to that?"

Clove clenches her teeth, "I cussed him out, which led to him to being a real fucking prize. He looked down on me and said that there was a reason why he liked Annie and not me, because she was nice. And then I started crying and vomited on his shoes."

"Not your day," Effie muses.

"Oh, it gets better. I almost passed out on the sidewalk and he ended up dragging me to Arrington to go to the hospital. He actually carried me into the emergency room like a baby - it was the most embarrassing moment of my life."

"A bit drastic, no?"

"And the nice thing about Gale is that usually he isn't."

Effie clicks her pen, pointing it directly at Clove. "Yes, well, panic can make people do crazy things."

"That could have been the end of it. I could have been just another bad story for Gale to tell his drinking buddies one day, but Mercury was in retrograde and I had a lifetime of bad karma, so when Doctor Hibbert came back and announced I was six weeks pregnant without asking me if I minded Gale knowing, I wasn't even surprised. Just blank."

This much, Euphemia Trinket knew.

"Children aren't a karmic punishment, Clove. They just are."

"Yeah, but tell that to a sociopathic fifteen year old who sees everything through a 'me, me, me' lense. Gale went on an incredibly obnoxious two-minute tirade about birth control. Like it didn't dawn on him that a fifteen-year-old girl with only one previous partner might not be on birth control.

I mean, Dicey and I had a bunch of condoms from the time we rode down to Virginia Beach for a concert and stopped into Planned Parenthood as joke, but I wasn't on any pills or patches or black magic."

Effie watches the clock patiently, "So how did you go from fifteen and pregnant to twenty and about to finish college? That is an impressive leap."

"I don't know," Clove says, biting into her fourth Hershey's Kiss. "Gale's given up a lot for us. That's why this is so hard, you know? Sage musta' been almost two by the time I got my acceptance letter, and I didn't really give him much of a choice - I told him he could come up with us to Charlottesville, or he'd have to visit on weekends. He turned Virginia Tech down for me when I was pregnant and I didn't even think of him when I'd applied a few years later."

"Give yourself some credit. He may have turned down school because it wasn't the right time."

"We come out to Charlottesville and ended up in family housing. It was the first time the two of us had actually lived together. I'd thought we'd become something, that having our own place with Sage would open us up to each other, but most of the time it was noisy neighbors," Clove counts on her fingers, "fighting over grocery bills, and Gale complaining about why he couldn't go to school too."

Effie watches her carefully, "Yes, not every teen pregnancy is an episode of the Secret Life of the American Teenager."

Clove groans. "Gale and I watch that show - we totally watch it every Monday to make fun of it. Which is sort of the point. Me and Gale are finally in a good place. We're friends now - we watch movies, and eat pizza, and play video games. If he'd been this cool in high school, maybe the two of us would have gone somewhere. Gale and I are friends - we work well as a team, but anything more than is just too stupid at this point, and it's confusing to Sage."

"Have you told him any of this?"

"Here's the thing, and I know it sounds absurd after everything I've done, but I don't want to hurt his feelings. He's a good person. He's a good _dad_, and how do you tell someone that's still not enough?"

"Life isn't about keeping score, Clove, and if he expects you to fall into his arms just because he's treating you nicely, then his behavior had the wrong motives to begin with. You have good reasons for wanting to preserve your friendship, and if moving in together can threaten that, then to what benefit will this decision be?"

Clove is taken by that though, when Effie hums. "Well, we've made it through our first session, and even though you may not think so, we've already accomplished a great ordeal. I want you think about what you want for daughter, Clove, what you hope to see. Let's discuss this the next time I see you, alright?"

Effie gets up, striding gracefully through the door, and allows Clove out. A smile finds the counselor at the familiar face awaiting her. "Ah, Cato. It's very nice to see you. Please come on in," she says warmly.

Cato and Clove lock uncomfortably into place, before their eyes meet, and Clove runs.

* * *

That is your Gale and Clove explanation and yes, it's going to add a very complicated dimension to Cato and Clove's future relationship. Cato wasn't in this chapter, and that's because he's been the primary focus of most of the last few chapters. He and Clove will be tagging along in chapter seven. See you soon :)

_If you're going to favorite/follow, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated._


	7. Taming the Stars

Now, I don't have to climb the highest mountain,  
and I don't have to sail the seven seas,  
no, I don't have to push myself through desert sands,  
'cause she's gonna find me here.  
And I don't have to put on all my best clothes,  
And I don't have to put on a show,  
No, I don't to act like a total stranger,  
'cause she's gonna find me here.

- Melee

* * *

**Fall Semester, Week 3**

* * *

It's Thursday night.

Popcorn kernels dot the carpet, and the four of them have moved solely in two-hour increments to switch the films. Cato's bundled himself in a heavy fuchsia blanket Glimmer stole from her parent's penthouse, his head draped across the loveseat's armrest, while Thresh, Finnick, and Glimmer are vegging out on the couch, their feet rested in warm socks on the coffee table like a bunch of uncultured swine.

They have been marathoning Marvel Avenger movies since four, with this 'brounion' in the works since the end of the summer, in preparation for The Avenger's DVD release next Tuesday.

In chronological order, they've watched Captain America, Hulk, Iron Man, and are about to pop in Iron Man 2, when Finnick's phone buzzes. He contemplates not answering, not withdrawing from the bet, when he lets out a sigh.

"Tough break, Finny," Glimmer teases as he draws his phone out of the cell phone tower with a frown, sending the rest tumbling.

"It's okay," Thresh says grandly, slapping a hand on Finnick's right shoulder, and using the other to form a wide canvas before them. "Our young chap is a working man, a protector of the citizens of Charlottesville," he says dramatically.

Cato and Glimmer hardly stifle their laughs. "Yeah, well next round of pizza is on you, _Officer_ Odair," Cato says, grinning.

"Odair," Finnick answers with a sigh, dropping his phone reflexively at the ear-shattering shriek that reverberates from the other line.

"Finnick!" the voice pleads hysterically, choking violently on her words. He hears a few practiced breaths, before the sobs continue.

"Who's that?" Glimmer asks, the four them suddenly on edge.

Finnick locks up, panic permeating his skin, when Thresh grabs the phone hastily, and asks, "Where are you?"

"Fabs," she chokes. "Please hurry."

Then the line cuts off.

* * *

_six hours earlier_

"Order up!"

Clove bustles past the steaming kitchen into the office, a kick in her step as she drops her bag over her shoulder and onto an empty seat. "The prodigal child returns," a voice murmurs, not looking up from their paperwork. The young man crunches more numbers, a stream of paper pumping out of the calculator.

"You look like you need a drink," Clove observes, pulling her hair back and securing it into a taut bun. She leans over the olive-skinned man's shoulder, and watches as he continues his work.

"That's what happens when your right hand man disappears for three weeks," he replies acerbically.

Clove slinks back, and drags a black pullover cardigan over her head, fastening her badge, and collecting the mail from the shelf above his head. "Ever considered hiring another assistant manager, Titus?"

Titus looks up, quirking an eyebrow, and says with conviction, "I don't think you realize how poor I am."

Clove doesn't bother to mention that he's 23, single, and has two jobs.

"You're hardly poor," Clove says with a roll of eyes.

Nor does she mention it wouldn't be his pocket to pick in the first place.

"Am too. The babysitting gig goes straight to my tuition," he cuts.

"They're both babysitting gigs," Clove replies, glowering at her mail, then flippantly throwing it back into the slot.

Titus runs a hand through his dark hair, pulling the cuffs of his dress shirt up. "Yeah, begs the question, what's the real difference between spending all night watching a bunch of squirmy freshman try to grasp basic psychology and spending all day watching a rag-tag team of freshman run around the restaurant trying to take down orders."

"Cool story, bro. Tell it again."

"You make me regret promoting you everyday."

"That makes two of us," she says, lightly, and pushes his shoulder in an attempt to be encouraging.

"Keep an eye out on Bonnie," Titus presses, his lips thin, and eyes narrow, "She and Twill spend more time shooting the breeze than getting anything done. I tried to sit her down the other day, but she acted like I was going to eat her alive."

"Maybe with a little hot sauce," she says in jest.

Titus doesn't dignify that with a response.

"Oh, c'mon. You hired fresh meat without me." Clove goads, her bottom lip forced strategically over the top in a pout, "I wanted to be a part of the torture panel Mr. Flick made me suffer through when he hired me."

Titus crosses his arms, "Then next time you take a 'vacation,' make sure you have a valid excuse besides bird flu or syphilis."

He makes his exit before Clove can snap back with a retort of her own.

"Nice to see you too, Tightass," Clove mutters, dabbing a glob of hand sanitizer on her hands, and preparing for the night ahead.

* * *

Old timers have the option of taking their patrol cars home, but Finnick is hardly eligible for health insurance, let alone that. And truthfully, though his bartender days are far behind him, he's still a few years from 25, so he'd prefer it if the old cruiser didn't cockblock him.

With his Old Victoria at the station, he and Cato are racing past late-night drivers on the 250 in his old Honda, making their way through the southern edge of town in a haze.

Most days, this would be a ten minute drive. _At least_, a ten minute drive.

Cato is still, watching the dark highway signs with curiosity, but maintaining a cautious disposition. He doesn't speak, only watches, and it takes Finnick back.

They're two minutes away when he realizes he has to send out some on-duty officers, that he should have when he first got the call.

"Call the station, tell them we have a 10-65."

Cato sets the cell on speakerphone, it rings twice, before the standard, "911, what is your emergency?" picks up.

"Possible 10-65 at Fabios Southside," Cato repeats steadily. "Off-duty officer Odair, badge #64971 and intern en-route, bout' a minute from location."

The dispatcher reigns in backup, sirens soon ringing in the distance as they pull into the lot. Fabios, a popular pizza joint for locals and students alike, is rather poorly lit. Impulsively, Finnick bolts towards the door when the blonde pulls him back.

"We need to think this through."

_They met three years ago - Labor Day Weekend 2009. _

Finnick nods, discreetly trudging towards the door. It's been at least ten or eleven minutes, and that's more than enough to rearrange his stomach into practiced knots.

"Look," he says, pointing to the cash register. On the counter are several crumpled dollar bills and the till has been disturbed from its rightful place. A vase that once held business card lies in pieces on the floor.

He can vaguely piece a scenario together where an unwelcome intruder pounced on the unsuspecting assistant manager, just minutes after closing hour.

Is it her, or are there others? The thought trips him up, makes him take pause. Cato's right, they need to think this through.

_Finnick could tell Cato had just grown into his limbs. He was tall, somewhat broad, and he stuck out like a sore thumb among the other boys in his fraternity recruitment group._

_He looked like anyone you could have picked out of any boy band of the 1990s. Despite his first reservations, Finnick found Cato was far more loyal to his rush group, even the undesirable parties, than to any fraternity in particular, and he'd liked that, he liked that a lot. _

He edges inside, mustering all his energy to do this as tactfully as possible. The dining room right beyond him is a blanket of darkness, a death trap if he makes one false step and raises alarm. "Stay outside," Finnick hisses.

"Fin," Cato protests.

"No," he cuts.

"What if you-"

"I don't have time for this. There are people in danger," Finnick rebukes. Cato hesitates, and draws back. Finnick shakes his head, and smirks, "Don't worry. I got everything handled, little bear."

_He didn't know who was luckier - Theta Chi for getting Cato, or Cato for being the only one quite that rough around edges to become a member of Theta Chi. He was going to make the frosh his little brother._

_His efforts were promptly thwarted when one of his brothers thought it would be a good idea to drag the pledges to the old Maplewood Cemetery as a class prank. The original plan been for the brothers to coerce the freshman into uncovering old confederate graves, with the lingering reward that the first to get a bone would become pledge class president. _

_Course, they hadn't prepared for what truly followed._

With a shaky nod, Cato steps idly towards his old Honda while Finnick makes a discreet entry into the pizzeria.

His eyes struggle to find light as he gingerly sneaks into the narrow hallway. With his gun tucked into his pants and his badge leveled in his pocket, Finnick leads towards the closest source of light - the kitchen.

_Truly, the trip to the graveyard had been supposed to be a joke to spook em. All in good fun, as they say._

_Except that this pledge class had been fully armed with thirty-one up and coming sociopaths, who apparently had no qualms around digging up hundreds of years in in rich Charlottesville history, and the initiated brothers, too arrogant to lose face, let the joke develop into its own nightmare, and suddenly 73 freshman and sophomore brothers had quickly become grave plunderers. _

A squeak of feedback alerts Finnick to the burglar's approximate location."Fuckin' bitch, I'll find you," echoes from the loud speaker.

Finnick looks up, his face darkening.

This is the asshole's first fucking mistake, he decides, trekking towards the kitchen. With a second rustle, he ducks, then inches his way up to peer through the window.

The burglar is a picking through various kitchen supply drawers, and howls an expletive or two when he jabs one of his fingers on a particularly impressive knife. Finnick attempts to appraise if the burglar had a weapon on arrival. Either way, even if he didn't then, he does now.

He hisses, scrambling to find something to nurse his wound.

_It was only fifteen minutes in and three feet deep and Cato had already fallen to his knees shaky, irate, and about to vomit. When he'd pulled the blonde away, Cato been hasty to shift the blame, crediting his reaction to the putrid smell of the rotting corpses. _

_When one of the mouthier pledges had called into question the older fraternity brothers' nerve, asking why they weren't digging, Cato had brazenly spat something to the effect that they were all talk, no balls._

Reasonably speaking, the likeliness of there being more than one burglar is low. However, at the moment, Cato's wary disposition yelling at him in the crevices of his subconscious to 'be careful' is the only thing saving this guy's neck, and he's willing to bet this charity case is a rehab reject straight outta hell.

At the moment, there are more important matters to attend to anyways.

He doesn't risk a glance at his phone, but by now it's been a quarter hour - 900 seconds, and all the burglars needed to put a bullet through her head was one.

This thought alone inspires motion as he glides past the narrow hallway. Finnick's eyes clench shut forcefully at the fluorescents, inching open after a few haste blinks.

As far he can see, the back office has been left undisturbed. There's little down the hallway aside employee lockers, an unlocked restroom, and the back door to a walk in freezer.

Finnick frowns.

Isn't that peculiar? As he tries to create a mental floorplan where the freezer's location could possibly make sense, he slams his fist against the wall.

That lapse in judgement leaves him scrambling, when the freezer door blows open and Clove stumbles directly into his arms. "Finnick," she breathes heavily, and then gets to her feet. "He's coming, we gotta move, we gotta-"

Unsteady, she clings to him, and he pulls her into his chest, willing his body to warm hers.

* * *

_one hour earlier_

They ask her her what it feels like to be a bona fide college girl.

Venia, Portia, Bonnie - all of them take turns prodding into her personal life while they flip over chairs, and collect any stray debris.

Collectively speaking, Clove thinks, it feels like: Sage, homework, Rec Club, Fabios, Gale, her new shrink, hot cocoa, Enobaria, Probation, her creepy neighbor x1, her creepy neighbor x2, and too many video diaries for class.

"I missed Dance Moms last night."

Which launches a long, intrepid conversation on her [lack of] taste in television.

Portia's seasoned, a veteran who teaches cosmetology by day, but strawberry blonde Venia, and bob-cut Bonnie are novel to the pizza joint. And what that means for Clove is that she's artfully diverted an inquisition into the status of her relationship with 'that hunky wilderness man.'

There are small miracles.

She turns off the dining room light. The sole evening glow emanating from the led sign that Clove switches to 'closed.'

"Alright, Gossip Girls, I gotta close up. Good night," she says with a faint smirk, as they flip over the last chair.

"Night," they say in cheery unison.

They disperse into the lot, each of them revving up the engines, and making conversation as they trail out one by one. She locks up, and rounds the register.

After keying in her code, the register pops open, and she moves to remove the till, when a stream of light erupts from the customer restroom. A figure comes forth, staring her down.

"Oh, sir. We're closed," Clove babbles, "I'm so, so sorry. Let me see you out. Again, I apo-"

"I need a copy of my receipt," the man murmurs lowly.

She bobs her head in agreement, "Certainly. Let me-"

His hands sneak into the register, and that's when Clove slams the till shut. Coins burst forth from the register with a clatter, "You bitch, I'll get you for that!"

That's when she runs for cover.

* * *

"Is he-"

_armed?_

"I told ya I'd find you, bitch," the man spits, barreling through the door after Clove with a manic look in his eye. His hand is still bleeding, but it's the knife in his left hand that catches Finnick's attention most.

"Drop your weapon!"

He comes to a standstill, Finnick in his line of vision, and stalks forward. "Who the fuck are you?" the man snarls, before grabbing Clove by the coattails of her long locks, and dragging her back towards him. She falls away from his arms and barely catches her footing.

"Finnick!" she screams, panic settling in.

"Police, drop your weapon!" the redhead barks.

The burglar has the audacity to smirk. "Don't look like a Hoo to me," he taunts. The man's eyes lock in on Finnick's hand inching towards his waist, when he says, coolly, "She'll be gone before you draw it."

"If you want the money, you can have it," Finnick assures.

"And why the fuck should I trust you?"

"You can leave. Take whatever you want. I won't follow, I promise," Clove reasons. "It's against the rules, I'd lose my job. Pleas-"

His grip on Clove's shoulder tightens, forcing her to look at him. "Like you give a fuck about rules, lying cunt. Made my job a lot harder than it had to be by running. Brought this on yourself."

She cries out, "I won't fight, please just stop. I want to go home, I want to go home to my daughter."

The burglar throws her to the ground, and says to himself, "Sadie won't let me see my kid. Consider yourself fucking lucky."

Clove crumples to the ground, her face a sickening, harsh red as she struggles for air. That's when Finnick decides to level the playing field.

_With the new promise that he'd have the sole responsibility of climbing into the graves and excavating the bones himself, Cato had levied a heavy threat to call police, and tear down 95 years in fraternity history. _

_In retaliation, the collective reduced him to a bleeding slab of skin and bone. Cato had put up a tough fight, went down swinging, but in a fight 30 to 1? He didn't look much better than Gibson in Passion of the Christ. _

"What do you want?" he asks the burglar affirmatively.

Clove's fetal, entirely away from the situation. A cocoon might be a fairer description.

He vision shifts to the perpetrator. The burglar is hardly older than he is, with scruffy brown hair, biting, bitter brown eyes, dressed in a black Steelers' sweatshirt, and athletic shorts. Finnick wonders if he woke up this morning and thought to himself, 'I think I'm going rob Fabios today.'

"We've agreed to allow you the money, that we won't follow, there's not much more that we can do, but we're trying to be cooperative. What do you want?"

The burglar spits, "Flickerman. I want the old man."

"Who's that?"

"The owner, but he's out of Richmond. He doesn't- It'd be hours," Clove whimpers.

"You don't have hours," the burglar threatens. His menacing aura dissipates for a flash as he works to keep himself warm. Finnick doesn't have that problem - the adrenaline is enough, but Clove is along the same lines. She's cold, fetal, and has been in the freezer for an extensively longer period of time than they have. There's only so much time before hypothermia sets in.

"And what's he got?" Finnick interrupts, "Maybe we can help."

He scowls. "Get me his home address. You-" he points at Clove, "You can open the files, right?"

She nods within the cocoon. "You can have any of it, just get us out of the freezer. It's so-" Clove shivers.

Cato picks the worst moment to makes his dramatic entrance.

* * *

_"I'm deactivating," Finnick informed the chapter president the following Monday afternoon. _

_"Don't be hasty-"_

"_You don't think the police aren't already scouring the city looking for suspects?" he asked pointedly._

_"Admittedly, it was a joke that got out of hand, but Finnick, your brothers look up to you. You're a leader, we've all seen it. You recruited one of the most impressive pledge classes in chapter history."_

_He raised his brows, "I recruited a band of thugs. Doesn't matter what you're wearing, Dalton. Uncovering the dead is illegal. Pretty fucked up too."_

"_Young men often make colorful decisions, but boys will be-"_

"_If you say boys will be boys, I'm gonna wreck your ugly mug. You're going to be a teacher for fuck's sake."_

_The president sighed, "There must be something that can be done. I'm trying to be cooperative."_

_"Look," he cut off shortly, "I can't control much, but you better believe I can control which assholes I decide to call my friends. Desecrating graves, then nearly murdering one of our pledges is not the Theta Chi I gave the last year of my life to."_

"_What do you want me to say?"_

"_I don't want you to say anything," Finnick said finally. Resigned, he added, "Have fun putting out the fire, Dalton."_

* * *

Despite what every episode of COPS tries to convince the general public of, most police work is traffic tickets, drunk people, keeping old ladies company, petty theft, and disorderly conduct.

He doesn't solve homicides or scour the city for sexual predators. He's arrested two panhandlers, and even that left him ethically conflicted.

Police work, to be summed, is not speeding down the highway to save a friend from burglars. It is also not leaping onto said burglar, who is armed with a fucking knife, because one's intern has extremely poor timing, and has walked into the freezer where they've been being held hostage for the last ten minutes, and is consequently about to get all involved parties killed.

"Get the knife," he coughs, the burglar's calloused hand at his throat, his back flat against the floor, "Ca-"

Finnick knees the man in the stomach, and flips him over. It's only seconds after that the burglar is successfully detained, the kitchen knife collecting a layer of vapor from the corner it's been nudged into by the edge of Cato's Converse.

"Perimeter is clear," one of the officers shouts from the kitchen. "They're in here, Rowlands."

"Both of you, out," Finnick pants.

"Maybe it's better," Cato begins.

"Out!" Finnick roars, turning his face back towards the two. Clove doesn't hesitate, moving uncoordinatedly towards the door. Cato trails after her, keeping her steady.

The officers make their untimely entrance, securing the area before Officer Rowlands handles the burglar, pulling him from the ground harshly. "Not bad, rook," Teller says offhandedly. "Not the smoothest technique, but a good damn effort. Your arm, that's gotta be checked."

That's when the adrenaline wears off, and he becomes painfully aware of the long, diagonal cut across the exterior of his forearm, one certainly liable to scar. Finnick grins to himself a little, despite that, musing over the gash.

Teller presses a kitchen rag to his wound, scoffing at his hiss of pain, "Pay attention, kid. You really don't want to turn this guy's charge in a felony murder."

"Medics on the way," Rowlands adds, clenching the burglar's arms carelessly in the bonded cuffs.

Finnick nods. "Weapons over there," he gestures, cocking his neck to the right. "I gotta check on the others, make sure they made it out alright."

Clove is comfortably perched in Finnick's driver-side seat, oriented with her feet outside of the vehicle. Cato returns from the redhead's trunk with a quirky smile. "Look what I found," he says, offering her a black hooded sweatshirt. Embedded on the back is **University of Virginia - Department of Criminal Justice** in white text, encapsulating the scales of justice.

She accepts the jacket. "This one's a classic."

"He's gonna give you a piece of his mind," Clove informs him, sliding on the jacket.

"Yeah," he slumps, slightly. "First day of the gig he said not put myself in any dangerous situations."

"Beginner's luck."

"My brother's up in Baltimore, and he's never been mugged. Says he's never been, anyway," Cato muses. "Makes me wonder how sleepy Charlottesville fell prey."

The two hush up as Finnick approaches. Torn, he finally says, "You need me to call-"

"There's no way to finish that sentence without more headache," Clove pipes up, "Just give me a ride home?"

Finnick frowns, "Not until you're medically cleared." He waves down the paramedics, makes an agreement to answer statement questions with officers on-scene, and then adds, "Mind Cato tagging along? Because it's either him, Gale, or-"

"But I'm fine!"

"You were locked in a freezer for twelve minutes, Clove. You're not fucking fine."

"I locked myself in the freezer for twelve minutes," Clove corrects.

Cato arches his eyebrows, adding, "Yeah, you definitely need to be medically cleared. What if you got hypothermia?"

"Or twisted something-"

"What if you wake up and have a seizure, or an aneurysm, or-"

"Catch frostbite and have to saw off your own foot," Finnick adds louder than he meant to, with Officer Rowlands and Teller shooting him a look.

"I am not a damn toddler, Fin," she snaps, pushing him away. "Thank you for saving my life, really, but I can make my own decisions, and right now all I really want to is go to bed, so if you can shut the fuck up for two minutes and listen to me like an adult, I promise to be the world's best witness, but right now I really just want to be alone, and you're making everything worse!"

* * *

Finnick gives the best hugs. Clove's sure he has a lot more going for him than just that, but Finnick has always been qualified with safe. For a cop, he's particularly non-threatening, the right sort of temperament to break stereotypes.

But back to his hugs - Finnick gives the best hugs.

And once she'd started crying, he'd drawn her into a supportive hug, disclosing in an uneven tone that he was so grateful that she was okay. There were a few sentences here and there about God, prayer, and grace, before he'd pleaded with her to be medically cleared before going home.

That's when she noticed the old dish rag wrapped around his forearm.

"It's not hot chocolate," Cato prefaces lightly about an hour later, "But look what I got you."

Clove fails to a suppress a yawn, mumbling a faint "thank you" as she unwraps the six pack of Oreos.

Cato slumps into the seat beside Clove's bed, looking very disparaged by the entire experience, and inquires cautiously, "Can I ask you something?"

"Guess so," she says, nestling closer to the pillows.

"It was your first time, wasn't it? That's why you looked so panicked, right? I didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh, no, this is the late night routine at Fabios every Thursday. Sorry if I bothered you," Clove spits, her eyes suddenly narrow.

Cato cringes, "I meant seeing Effie. Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Cato, I can only handle one episode of the Clove-trauma train at a time," she replies warily. "I'm seeing a shrink, and you're seeing a shrink. Alas, dear soldier, your quest to find the world's pointiest hair gel continues."

One thing that's kept him considerably in tact in the last ten days has been taking Clove Holloway with a grain of salt, and so he responds with a grin, "It's a perilous journey, commander."

When she offers him one of the Oreos, his grin widens. "I fixed the report," reading in a theatrical tone, "Clove Holloway, born in Shaler, Pennsylvania to Balthazar and Elma. By the way, your hometown? Mega wonderbread. 97% of the population is white. I looked it up on city-data. You think they kept the 3/5s law?"

"Get a life," Clove groans, dragging the blanket above her head.

"You have one sister, Annie, and your best friends are Gale, and Volpe. No dog, though. That sucks. No wonder you're seeing a shrink."

"Bet Marissa loves that you've got a special nickname for her," Clove chortles.

"That's alright," he counters cheekily, "I got a nickname for you too."

Warily, she peels the blanket off. "If it's any form of the words pipsqueak, short stuff, or little one, you'll wish our neighborhood burglar had put the knife to your throat instead."

"Snivellus Snape, actually. Holds a very dear place in my heart."

"Gee, thanks."

"If you had any taste, you'd realize it's a backhanded compliment," Cato retorts defensively.

"Yeah, nothing sweeter than to be compared to a greasy, neo-nazi stalker. How did I miss the symbolism in that?" she says, dripping sarcasm.

"Snape was innocent."

"We're on that kick again?" Clove asks. "Alright, fine. And how exactly did you know this years before the rest of us muggles did?"

Cato bites down on his lower lip and then smiles, slightly off-kilter. "Most people's intentions can be read by the consistency in their patterns of behavior. Hence the nickname."

"Snape was a colossal douchebag."

"But most good people are. I'd rather be friends with an unkind good person, than an amicably evil one instead. That's what really seals it," Cato informs her, "Over the span of seven years, Snape tries to save Harry from falling off his broom, being attacked by his parent's murderer, deatheaters when he tries to save Sirius from the ministry, and then when Dumbledore tells him Harry has to die, his response is anger. Who do you know who would put in that much effort to save someone they don't even like?"

Clove scoffs, "You missed the part where he had a boner for Harry's mother."

"That's a harsh generalization."

"You keep telling yourself that."

And that is how the pair ends up debating the merits of Severus Snape between five packs of Oreos and two bags of Cheez-Its until sunrise.

* * *

**AN **- The first semester takes place in fall of 2012, with the second semester continuing into spring 2013. For the reviewer who was upset by the Dicey cameo last chapter, he won't actually be appearing. So the flashback between Finnick and Cato takes place in the fall of 2009. **T**heta **C**hi is supposed to be shorthand for **T**he **C**apitol in this scenario.

_If you're going to favorite/follow, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated._


	8. Drowning Above Ground

What if I told you what was really going on?  
No more masks and no more parts to play  
There's so much I want to say  
But I'm so scared to give away  
Every little secret that I hide behind  
Would you see me differently?

- Jason Walker

* * *

**Fall Semester, Week 4**

* * *

"_Fair warning, this is not a happy story."_

It's with a violent start that Clove jolts into consciousness Monday following the robbery. It's still dark when her eyes open, not that she can tell with the blinds primely drawn together. She struggles to find any light in the blanket of darkness enveloping her, and she lets out the tightness in her chest she didn't know she was holding.

"Mama, you don't have to be scared anymore," a soft voice murmurs, curled into her chest.

This is where she finds stillness and peace of mind.

"No," Clove agrees, softly. She presses a firm kiss to her to daughter's hair and pulls Sage even closer. "Did crazy mommy scare you?" she asks, stealing the child's warmth and nuzzling at her side.

_On Sunday, she'd ditched work (Fabs closed temporarily for repairs), and met up with Cato at Java Java. Before he''d been able to protest, she'd handed him an iced coffee as a token of gratitude for 'saving her life.' _

_He'd seemed vaguely uncomfortable with the assertion, attempting to blend in with the wall behind him, "Our first life summary paper is due in a week. Syllabus says we gotta get to age six in our interviews by Friday."_

"_Fair enough, but you first."_

"_Alright, alright," he said in an attempt to placate her. "Marvel and I are a year apart. We're half-brothers. His dad never married my mother or anything, but Jack was the closest thing to a father I ever had. He came into our lives a few months after I was born. I never knew my own dad, maybe my mom never gave im' the chance."_

Sage shuffles, making herself more comfortable. "No," she says finally. "Daddy said if I ever see a monster I gotta stand big and tall and say, 'Go away, Mr. Bear! I don't mean you no harm!' and wave my hands til it leaves."

"He's got a wild imagination," Clove says generously, concentrating on the wall diagonal to herself. "What else has he taught you?"

"Mmm," Sage draws out, "you can track a moose by its poop and how not to crumple up leaves to scare baby rabbits and a lotta stuff on being exra', exra' careful."

As an apprentice of Charlottesville Parks and Recreation, Gale spends most of his working hours managing the upkeep of city parks and local trails, but when a class trip wanders through, he's the first to volunteer a tour, breaking out his repertoire of pitches, accents, and voice shifts.

He and Sage share a sense of limitless enthusiasm.

Clove's eyes fall into an easy rest, when a shatter has her scrambling under the sheets with a squeal. She pulls the heavy quilt over her head and plays dead.

"Ma-" Sage begins, before Clove hushes her hastily and cocoons them under the blankets.

Rocks. It feels like she's swallowed rocks.

Sage slips from her grasp, and darts into the hallway. "Mr. Bear, don't hurt my mommy!" she declares.

"Sage-"

Clove takes a shaky step towards the hallway when Sage reemerges from the kitchen with a clumsy wobble, beaming, "Mommy, you must have the strongest book ever!"

She gives the four-year-old a blank look.

"Daddy says knowledge is power and that book must be exra', exra' knowledge-bull because it broke Grammy Angelie's old table all by itself."

And it's true. Her Research Methods book has utterly wrecked a glass panel on the retro coffee table in her living room. The rabbit, her's, is clawing at its cage curiously. Sage's mouse is unethused with the clatter, sleeping in his running ball quite comfortably.

_Cato's feet swung restlessly, "I was five when they told me Jack wasn't my dad._

_He used to like me better than Marv. I was the favorite. I think he saw himself in Marvel, a frail, gangly kid with curly hair and a self-conscious smile, and he never really, I don't think he liked himself. He used to tear up all the bad pictures mom developed of him at Rite Aid._

_And when I was in kindergarten, I made him a picture frame with some old popsicle sticks and Hot Wheels stickers. And then I went to go feed Porkchop dinner, and it'd been all chewed up. _

_Porkchop was a small dog. He couldn't have gotten it from the counter himself. And I ended up in a fight with Marvel. He just would not shut the hell up, so I pushed him to the ground, but mom couldn't stand that - her sweet prince in tears, no, no, no - so she picked me up and kept me against the wall, and really, really nicely tells me, 'Jack isn't your dad. I don't know where the fuck your dad is,' and goes to get Marvel a bag of peas." _

The table belonged to her great-grandma Angeline, and she inherited it over Annie and cousin Rosemary in her rickety old will.

Mom's gonna kill her.

Annie got a college-fund, so she can eat it.

Clove releases a solemn breath, tucking Sage back into bed, and returning to her own with wonder and bewilderment.

She's nearly returned to sleep when the wind whistles and she shoots sharply out of bed.

Sleep doesn't find her.

* * *

They're burning daylight by the time Gale collects her and Sage for morning carpool.

A new mother at Kindercare eyes the two of them for a solid two minutes before flashing an artificial smile and babbling fruitlessly about what a lovely couple she and Gale make. "Your daughter looks likes just like you, such a pretty girl. You must be so proud."

To their immense credit, the two of them don't make the idle remarks that could so easily slip. Like, for example, that Mama Housewife is grasping at straws. Needle in haystack size straws.

Sage has soft features: wide, brown eyes, golden skin, and straight, dark-hued hair. Clove had been dubiously accused of kidnapping some stranger's rugrat not too long after she returned to high school.

The joke had initially been lost on her.

"They think a grimy welfare queen sold 'er to you for a buck fifty at Walmart," one of her classmates had explained, flicking his Parliament Light.

"We're so proud," Gale feigns earnestly, smiling in a grossly happy manner. He begins a long dialogue about the math workbook they purchased for Sage, and how he's unsure of which to get next. "Sage likes the cover to Bedtime Math better, but I've always told her never to judge a book by its cover, and -"

"_Mom waitressed, and Jack was a trucker for Ace Hardware. He'd work five days on, seven days off, and alternating weekends. In kindergarten, one of the room moms took the boys to see Liar Liar. And when it came out on VHS, I begged mom to get it for me. _

_The film was supposed to be funny. A guy who can't lie for a whole day and he makes all these faces, but the best part, the best part is when Jim Carrey goes to the airport, runs after his son and promises he'll never hurt him again.'_

_I wanted that and I was willing to do anything to get it."_

He doesn't take a breath to allow Mama Housewife the opportunity to work in a response, and she levies an anxious, wary gasp before Clove finally chimes in, "We gotta go to work."

"Oh," Gale replies sheepishly, rubbing at his neck, "Well, nice to meet you. I'm Gale, this is Clove. We're the Hawthorne-Holloway family."

Once they're back in the old Jeep, she gives him dry look. "Telling them you're gay would be a quicker stall tactic. You're not actually obligated to talk to them just be they're appreciating the goods."

Gale shoots back instantly, "If I told them I was gay, topic would shift from penis to peacoat, but they'd still be hounding me. Women like her love pet gays."

"They love Mitt Romney and breakfast at Tiffanys. The jewelry store, not the movie," Clove disagrees, and then furrows her brow, "And maybe the movie, too. I've never actually seen it."

It's hard to think he used to live for the attention.

Once they're parked, Gale flings an egg mcmuffin at Clove with a grimace. "I cannot believe you made me drive through a McDonalds."

She's sprawled her legs on the dashboard of his old Jeep Cherokee, "Buck up, Hawthorne. A girl's gotta eat."

"Not only is fast food cost inefficient, but it's shit for your health."

Lord. She should have snapped on that chastity belt when she had the chance.

Clove chomps down on the breakfast biscuit loudly, spilling crumbs onto his passenger seat, "If you wanna pack me a sack lunch, that is your prerogative, but a girl's gotta have her priorities."

"What if I could promise you high quality, dirt-cheap dinner?"

"I'd say whatever gets you hot as long as it's not real dirt," she says, rubbing the grease from her hands onto a napkin.

Gale shoves her lightly, "Ye of little faith."

She snorts, biting into her hashbrown, delighted.

"October starts hunting season, and I promised Ty we'd go for a 300-pound slab of venison. It'd keep us in gold til next summer, likely."

"In case you're wondering," Clove says taking a slurp of hot chocolate, "It's still weird that you're friends with my boss."

"Think about all the money we'll save."

It's a cheap distraction, but she lets it slide for now. "As long as you can explain to Sage why you killed Bambi's mother."

"It'd be just the two of you for a couple of days - no rides to school, no rides to daycare, or to work."

She shrugs, "I got about three grand now. Missy and I were gonna breeze Craigslist ads. I'm thinking a champagne Rav4."

"Take your time," Gale says, stealing a pinchful of her hash brown, and grinning.

"How about a tit for a tat - I take Sage on your days, but before you leave, you gotta teach me how to fight."

Gale's mouth sleuths agape, "I haven't been in a fight since junior high. Survival skills, maybe."

_Cato_ _leaned his chair against the rails, adding, "Jack liked to watch WWE. Hulk and Sid Vicious and all those big guys. I used to curl around his lap, ask their names, their best moves, their skills. He loved it. _

_I was a little more tactile than my brother. Got Jack's attention first. Marvel was more sensitive, more of a storyteller, but he was quick to his feet and slick on the monkey bars. He probably would have been a better candidate to understand wrestling."_

_Suddenly, he corrected himself, "Well, maybe back then. Now, Marvel's a theatre major at UMBC, but Jack believed in survival of the fittest. And so I became the fittest to fit in."_

"Like how to use a rifle?"

"And a good hunting knife, too," Gale's brows rise as his brain streamlines the info, and then suspiciously, he asks, "What's the sudden interest? You're not going to up and join that gang the Bloody Cripples, are you?"

"Jesus, Gale. It's the Bloods and the Crips. Try not to get us shot in front of County Probation."

"What?" he asks, gesturing his arms. "There are no gangs in Kentucky. How the hell would I know?"

"Get a clue," Clove groans at the naivete, flicking him on the forehead. "And no, I'm not trying to join a gang, I'm trying keep that eight pound watermelon I spent seventeen hours birthing safe."

"Most of the time, she's the one that keeps me safe."

Clove's eyes draw to the floor, hoarse, "Yeah, and if we were good parents she wouldn't be so damn protective. It's time to get a thicker skin and take no prisoners."

Gale rests an arm of her shoulder, "What happened to you was awful, but it's not typical."

"And what about us is typical?" she scoffs scornfully.

"We love Sage. I'd say that's really typical, real run of the mill parenting, and we can't just leave guns or knives lying around our apartments because we're scared of the boogie man."

Clove hoists herself out of passenger seat and throws the bagel at him.

"He chased me through Fabios with a fucking knife."

"I _know_ that," Gale says earnestly.

"Then why are you treating this like I'm a paranoid schizophrenic? That was no boogie man," she asks, hotly.

Gale throws the bagel back at her and spitefully retorts, "Because if you really cared about safety, you wouldn't live in Autumn Hills."

"I am doing the best I fucking can," she snarls.

"You think you coming home from school and telling me your neighbor beats his wife and the guy six doors down is some racist skinhead is comforting? Our kid looks like she could be in a taco commercial!"

Clove's fist clenches, her knuckles whitening.

"I followed you here so you could have a normal life. I put off Virginia Tech so I could step up, and now because you made a few bad decisions, you get to retroactively decide that you want to keep a gun around?"

"_DC is kind of expensive for the dump it is. My family always struggled to make end's meet, with six people, it's a lot, so no Disneyland for us, but Marvel loves animals, and during the season we'd go to Roosevelt Island and watch the birds."_

"_Lovingston is the bed and breakfast capital of the northeast. We didn't get out of town very often, and I used to thumb the page in every library book I could find. I wanted to see everything: Tokyo, France, Rome, Minnesota-"_

"_Minnesota?"_

"_Mall of America is there," Clove defended. _

_Then said, "Dad loved the Cavaliers. We came to Charlottesville for a home game in 97, before they sucked, and afterwards I climbed the stairs to the rotunda while he told me all about Thomas Jefferson, about how founded UVA, that he had a message about it engraved on his tombstone. And in his life he wrote 19,000 letters and owned nearly seven thousand books."_

"_You never had a chance," Cato smiled. _

She's a half second from pouring the hot coffee on his lap to prevent him from ever having to 'put off' his education for any future kids, and nipping that one in the bud.

"Well, I wish it had been anyone but you!" she screams, instead.

That softens his features, and his forehead presses lightly against the steering wheel.

Clove only mutters belatedly, "I have to go," and closes the car door behind her.

* * *

Clove's tempted sporadically throughout the day to ask Brutus Clark if he'd teach her self-defense tactics. He's particularly jolly today.

Enobaria makes the drastic error of cycling through the same set of questions she asked him last visit. In true Brutus-fashion, he ends up citing the history of Columbus Day as a sly diversion. It'd be interesting, theoretically, if it wasn't punctuated by historical errors.

She imagines in another universe that he was a US history teacher and fights to keep a laugh from escaping her lips.

Brutus would probably be the coolest old man ever if he wasn't a bigoted redneck.

Enobaria's to the point where she gives him a look of resignment and bemoans her fate, but has lost a lot of her heat.

Shortly before five, Clove trails onto campus and camps out under a tree.

Titus catches her at the Lawn. His hair is scruffy per usual demand, and his black, thick-rimmed glasses are sliding down his nose as he plops down beside her, uninvited.

"You're still really into that whole death wish fetish thing, huh, Clove?"

She's itching away at her laptop, detailing this week's Rec Club agenda and decidedly uninterested in whatever lecture he's set on. "Nothing gets past you."

"We need to talk."

"Which almost always means, 'I'm about to ruin your day with bad news,'" Clove huffs. [1].

"I'm not here to yell at you," the twenty-three year old intercepts quickly. He shuffles a hefty pile of graded papers in his arms, piecing them together with binder clips to keep them from straying with the autumn winds. "Just checking in."

"That's good," Clove nods, tapping on the keys, "Because that would definitely end up on my timesheet." She doesn't look up.

"For the record, I'm glad you're not dead. Would have been a hell of a lot of paperwork."

She saves her word doc, "You think the local providers would think it's suspish' if I take out a few life insurance policies?"

Titus leans forward, "Only if they're on someone else."

"I guess this is as a good a time as any to ask how to spell your middle name."

"Wit fit for a queen, really," he says, "I know you think I'm a dick-"

"You are a dick, Ty. Doesn't negate having redeeming values. Just means you're a fucking pain in the ass."

Titus leans his head against the trunk of the tree. "If that's what you're into," he smirks, then adds hastily, "I say that as your friend not your boss."

"Friend-in-law," Clove chimes. Any friendship she has with him is a residual effect of his friendship with Gale.

"Tell CPD that we'll host a 10% fundraiser night. They got it put through with Flick, but at the point, he'd be in a bad place to say no."

"Speaking of CPD, I need you to teach me how to fight," she prompts, staring directly at him.

"I can teach you how to dial 911, since apparently somehow that wasn't your initial instinct."

Clove sends him a dirty look, "And how do you defend yourself in the meantime, asshole?"

"Oh, that's easy," he says breezily, "I'm in the habit of feasting on the hearts of my enemies."

Clove palms a hand through her hair, "So now you have a sense of humor."

Titus scrambles through his bag, and withdraws a folded flier. "Flick doesn't pay me to be funny. He pays me to keep people in line."

"Spoken like a true nark."

"Here," Titus says pointedly, "One of the other graduate assistants gave it to me. UVA Police Department teaches self-defense classes against sex assault. I mean, it might not be exactly what you're looking for, but-"

Her eyes skim the brochure, picking up key information on 'saferide,' a program that drives students who would otherwise be walking through campus late at night home, local resources, and then in the right hand corner is a small box detailing the Rape Aggression Defense classes, the times, dates, location, and how to register.

"If you were as a good boss as you are a TA, people'd probably like you better."

Reasonably speaking, she can afford the $25 suggested donation, and it's Wednesday morning, downtown; a lucky coincidence. The bold print notes the 1:2 male to female instructor ratio. Why that's important, she can't acquiesce.

Titus throws a pebble at her side and snippishly combats, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness, Lolo." [2]

"Ten-four, Buddha."

"Martin Luther King. For someone who reads a lot, you're not particularly well-read."

"Could you be any gayer?"

"I could be," Titus grins impishly, collecting his belongings and giving her a wink, "But, I don't think you really wanna know what Tax and I do in our spare time. Call the number. Be the exception, not the rule."

He's made it halfway across the lawn before Clove processes his confession, "Wait! What?"

* * *

There is a special a place in hell for people who squeeze in front of old ladies to steal the last seat on the city bus, but she feeds her kid pizza for breakfast, so she's already streamlined for that spot anyway.

The participants are older than she expects, most in their thirties, forties, and fifties.

It's almost as if someone rounded up prospects from the old country club. Though, the most easily recognized group among them are the stay-at-home moms fitted in complementary pastel racerbacks and black yoga pants.

A few of the stragglers are closer in age to her. One of them, an eccentric blonde Clove vaguely recognizes, rounds them up. "Good morning! I'm Glimmer. Welcome to City Space. RAD is about to begin any minute now, so put your cell phones on vibrate. If you need anything, let me know." [3]

She opens the door behind her, beaming at what Clove can only guess are supposed to be their instructors, but the first two, a man and woman about thirty, look more like underwear models and the last of them, a middle-aged woman, looks like she just ran a marathon and then some.

The younger of the women, the bombshell, is the first to approach, "On October 17th, 1999, a man tried to sexually assault me. I was fifteen. I didn't know what pressure points were, what tricks to use in a vulnerable situation. I'd been told if you didn't want it, you better fight back, and that if you didn't say no, then you might as well have said yes. These methodologies, these ways of thinking were extremely harmful to my self-worth."

The woman straps on a pair of red boxing gloves, fastening them into place, "My name is Cashmere. Welcome to Rape Aggression Defense class, sponsored by the Avon Foundation, UVA PD, the LGBTQ Resource Center, and the campus Women's Center."

The other two instructors wheel out defensive combat pads in shades of red and black, and resume their stoic regard.

Tension thickens the air, then Cashmere says grandly, "So, today, in addition to defensive techniques, we're going to talk awareness and prevention. RAD likes me to speak about risk reduction, but, you know what? I think that insinuates that a victim has any part to blame in their victimization, and I happen to disagree."

She goes on to explain the importance of self-awareness, tools one can utilize to keep themselves out of potentially unsafe situations, like Saferide.

The other female instructor has a city police badge fastened to her shirt. Finnick likely knows the woman, and if her phone wasn't at the bottom of her messenger bag, Clove would be playing twenty questions by now; '_Help, I think I walked into the auditions for America's Next Top Model?'_

"Before we begin, I'd like to introduce your other instructors. To my right is Detective Lyme Alsworthy."

'She put the lime in the coconut,' her mind sing-songs unhelpfully.

"-she has worked tirelessly with survivors and patrons for fourteen years. She was a strong supporter of the RAD program and fought for it to come to Charlottesville."

The fair-haired man returns to Cashmere's side, squeezing her shoulder supportively.

"This one over here," she says slyly, pointing to her left, "is city prosecutor Gloss Weller. He's generously volunteered to be our test dummy. During the last hour, each of you will have the chance to participate in a live simulation to practice what you've learned. That's always the fun part. Alright, who's ready for their gloves?"

Glimmer begins distributing pairs to various women, the stay-at-home moms giggling as they slip them into place.

The old bats from the country club don't make any active motion to move, only ogling Gloss Weller with distinct, and yet somehow crass poise.

Clove cracks her back and stands on the balls of her feet anticipatorily, then stretches as Gloss hands her her pair of gloves. "Make sure the velcro's fastened."

She's heard all about this one, Marissa's boss. First day of her internship, Missy called from the dorms, and nearly broke into hysterics over her nerves.

They break into two groups - one led by Cashmere and one by Lyme. Each leader demonstrates the techniques, dictating with a "No!" and then the group repeats the technique back to them.

Lyme adorns a torso-long red pad, and Clove takes a breath, kneeing the officer in the pad. "No!" she repeats.

It's a myth, Detective Alsworthy tells them during a rest period, that complying with a potential rapist will deter them. Most of them, in fact, compliance makes it less work for them. They're shown how to use persuasive speech.

An hour and half in, Clove tries to suppress the budding respect. The old ladies from the country club have got it going on. Their kicks resonate more than any of the other contenders.

"Alright, round up!" Lyme finally calls, and then Gloss returns in 30 pounds of red padding. He's fattened up like the Michelin man.

Cashmere stands before him, wipes the glisten of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, when Gloss says with a predatory, low, husky tone. "Hey sweetbottoms, where you going?"

She's silent.

"I'm just trying to have a friendly conversation. Women, they're so entitled these days."

"Leave me alone."

He narrows the space between them, "I bet I know exactly how to help you unwind."

Gloss catches her wrist in a vicegrip and then Cashmere goes for the goods. Three punches to the chest, a knee to the crotch, and then he dodges and throws his body weight into her.

Cashmere shifts, knock him to the ground, and keeps him there. He's down for a few seconds, catching his breath, and then Cashmere helps him up.

"So," she says with a thin smile, "Who wants to go first?"

One of the housewives' hands thrusts into the air.

Eventually the group of women unaccounted for dwindles, and it's her turn, and she is so NOT OKAY with this, because, hello, she does not respond well in stressful situations. She ran into a freezer for fucks sake.

The second half of the group is given an alternative scenario; the rules are clear, their eyes are to be kept closed, and they, themselves, unmoving until attacked.

She finds it hard to resist opening her eyes, to remain in place, and she hears faintly, vindictively, 'Like you give a fuck about the rules, lying cunt' in the caverns of her subconscious, before her posture locks up.

This scenario is a liable to give her PTSD, as Gloss calls her a myriad of epithets complementary to the burglar's, "You are pathetic!" he snarls. "Absolutely, despicable."

This is...

Clove waits for him to make a move, "And best of all, there's nothing you can do to stop me," and then he snatches her by the elbow.

She breaks free in less than second, and striking violently at his chest. Gloss goes for her arm and misses, and in a split second catches her from behind with exuberant force.

Clove hears him say, hears the junkie, 'I'll fucking find you, bitch!' and then she kicks Gloss from behind. He staggers behind her, but doesn't lose his footing.

While catching her breath, he throws himself at her and this time she leaps into him, takes him to the ground, and goes for another hit when she notices the blood from behind his helmet, his water-green eyes studying her, and peels away.

That wasn't part of deal, she wasn't- she wasn't supposed to actually hurt him. They got the best of her, got her down because she's weak. She hurt someone. If she can hurt a stranger, someone she hardly knows, what is to protect those whom she cares for, whom provoke her most?

She tears off the gloves and runs for it, for the hallway. This was a mistake. Titus was wrong.

"Anything I can do to help?" a familiar voice inquires. And that's where Clove remembers her from. Glimmer was her orientation leader two years back. She's was little more of a southern socialite back then, now she's beautiful in her understatement.

"I am a not a victim," Clove recites.

"No one can call you that," Glimmer agrees, extending her hand warmly.

"What I did was-"

"Gloss is pigheaded. He'll be fine."

"But that doesn't make it okay."

"Trust me, it's really nothing. Cashmere is my mentor for the College of Business, and Gloss is her incredibly sexy tagalong. He's dealt with plenty worse," Glimmer reassures.

Clove crosses her arms, "Another case of pretty people finding pretty people."

Glimmer's smirk surprises her, "In this case, it's more pretty people have pretty babies. Cash is 28, and he's a year younger. Gloss does this because he feels bad, feels that if he'd been around the night their step-dad tried to attack Cashmere, that none of this would have ever happened. So he volunteers to stand around as our incredibly grumpy, incredibly sexy test dummy."

"Are you scaring away the participants, Glimmer?" a voice scowls behind her.

Out of his padded suit, the guy is ripped, and it's distracting. "I was making a case for you," Glimmer simpers in return.

"Not interested, go tidy up. Pretty sure Cashmere is looking for her little minion."

Glimmer pouts, but rejoins the class.

Clove gives him a pointed look, "She really was making a case for you."

"Trust me, I'm not her type," Gloss says, "And she'd tell you that herself if she wasn't being so nosy."

"Right."

"You had a good shot," Gloss adds, the wound at the apex of his forehead. "You were doing great."

"I was more concerned about your gaping wound."

He smirks, irritatingly arrogant. "It'd take a lot more than one hit to take me down."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Thought about talking to Victim Services?" Gloss asks, quieter. "They're a part of my office. Can help you make a safety plan, or refer you to a therapist."

Finnick more or less gave the same advice, but saying 'I already have one' isn't likely to reflect anything positive on her in this context, so instead she replies, "I'll have to get back to you on that one."

And that's when he hands her a business card and heads back in.

* * *

The next morning, Gloss sorts through his mail, has an intern organize his casework for the following week, and works through his agenda, when there's a knock.

"I'm prepping for my morning, can it wait?" he asks, throwing a file into his drawer.

Marissa, his humble, but incredibly sharp intern (once in a while he gets a good one) announces, "Someone who says he's your brother is here to see you."

Gloss sighs, "Please inform my brother that speeding tickets are handled in city court and that I'm a criminal prosecutor."

He's almost certain Marissa is not willing to relay the message by the way she remains unwavering. Her hands are tucked into her mint cardigan as she stares him down.

"Do I really have to deal with this right now?" Gloss mutters, glaring murderously at his pinging phone.

"I could tell him you're in a meeting," Marissa offers.

"Or you could just tell me yourself," a voice supplies helpfully behind her.

The redhead nearly jumps out of her skin, startled, and snaps, "I asked you to sit and wait!" at the exact same time that Gloss tilts his head to the left to peek behind his intern, "Marvie?"

"Hi," Marvel grins, greeting him with a cheerful wave. "Long time, no see."

* * *

**AN** - Cato had to take a backseat for character development. Sorry, bro.

Annotations:

**[1]** - That is a quote from Alan Ritchson's (Gloss) twitter. He's hilarious. If you're over 16, go watch Blue Mountain State on Netflix. It's fantastic.  
**[2]** - Lolo is a pun derived from 'cLOve' and is the Hawaiian word for crazy. I imagine Titus as Josh Brener.  
**[3]** - Rape Aggression Defense is a series of classes between 12 to 15 hours. This was condensed for plot to four hours. If you're looking for a class like this, google your state and I'm sure your local police department, university, or center offers something akin to it.

In case the italics were confusing, the break in was on Thursday night, Cato and Clove met up to catch up on Sunday (Clove was at the hospital on Friday), and most of the chapter takes place the following Monday, with the RAD class on Wednesday morning.

_If you're going to favorite/follow, please review. Feedback is immensely helpful and highly appreciated._


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